Toes In

Testing the waters...

I’ve been completely off social media for a few weeks now, and I gotta say, I’m much happier, and have a truckload less stress. Granted, I’m not connected to a lot of friends this way, which makes me sad. The lack of politics and race tensions (don’t get me started...) has helped my overall mood and quality of life.

I obviously didn’t follow my zero-social-media oath, as I have posted a few blogs. I have not, however, shared them to any platform. That counts, right?

So, I’ve decided to not download FB on my phone. Because my other blog... 

(The Rieview)

... is basically my job, I will be using IG and Twitter for that, and maybe checking my personal IG, as well. I hate Twitter, but I guess I have to use it to promote The Rieview...

Cherished friends and family can reach me via FB messenger, or messaging my IG (@the_rieview or @riedefine). If you’ve got my number, that’s the best way.

Gee, Thanks

I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Thanks to growing up under the thumb of a toxic father, I’ve finally decided that moving out is my number one priority. I looked into renting in quite a few places, but I randomly looked up less expensive condos and whatnot. Yeah, it’s significantly less to buy than it would be to rent. I got connected to a mortgage lender and buyer’s agent, and have been working with both.

Now, every time I’ve tried something, even if it was just an idea (like that history video thing that never went anywhere), I’ve had 100% support from everyone. I got 100% support when I decided to go back to school, get a job, even when I stopped talking the the narcissist. Every single person I’ve told about moving out has been less than supportive. They’re treating me like that special ed kid who doesn’t understand the real world. Believe it or not, I do understand that living alone, whether renting or buying, costs money. I’m not just going to save up a grand, move into a place I can’t afford, then leave a month later. I understand the concept of HOAs and taxes. I also understand that this is a big decision. So people, I beg you, stop treating me like my IQ is 12.

Seriously, if you can’t at the very least show the pros along with the cons, don’t say anything at all. There are rare instances where every outcome is negative. This is not one of them. However, staying in this house with he-who-can-do-no-wrong will end up one of two ways: a bullet in my head, or me in prison for putting one in his.

I’m not asking you to blindly support me. I need to know the things you’ve run into when buying your home. But I need the bad and the good. 

Things to keep in mind:

- I wouldn’t consider a place unless I can afford it (that really shouldn’t have to be said)

- I’m dying in this house. Whether some people (mom) want to believe it or not, narcissistic abuse is abuse.

- I do, in fact, understand what I’m getting myself into.

- You’re not going to stop me from saving myself.

Enough Is Enough

Try all you like. It won’t change anything.

So, since my mom’s surgery, I’ve given the narcissist another chance. He didn’t change in the slightest, despite saying, yet again, that he’d “work on it”. Tonight, it ended. This time, for good.

He comes in, yelling at me, because I acted on a threat I’d made more than a week ago. I gave him more than enough time to simply take the mess he’d made in the living room, and put it in the back of his truck. It wasn’t done, so I put it on the porch. He knew there’d be consequences if he didn’t clean it up. I made that perfectly clear. Even someone as stupid as he is, could understand “Friday night, or it’s out of here”. It wasn’t done by Friday.

He’s always taken great pleasure in picking on me for every tiny thing. Apparently, his father did that to him, and he just kept the tradition going. But today, I made the decision that I will not allow him to make me feel that way, ever again.

He finally got his big boy pants on, and, for the first time in my life, apologized. I use that word loosely, as it wasn’t so much an apology as it was an attempt at a guilt trip. I told him that we were done, that he wasn’t to speak to me unless it was an emergency. My favorite part was when he used this: “... have faith in scripture ‘forgive seven times seventy’...” My response? I told him flat out that I have no faith in him, because he always says he’s going to do better, and he always comes back to fighting, yelling, and making me feel like crap. So, no, we have no relationship. Never have, never will.

I have no dad. Never have. Mom keeps saying, “He’s dome some good things.” Yeah... if you use “some” instead of “a lot”, you’re grasping at straws, and those good things are obviously the exception to the rule. She should have left him. Would have made her life a crap load better.

I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m looking into moving out pretty soon. Here’s praying it works. If I’m not out of here soon, he’s gonna wind up with a fist to the face.

I honestly have zero idea why I ever gave him yet another chance. I knew it would end like this. It always has. My mistake. Won’t happen again.

Something New (Kind Of)

Just something I’ve been thinking about...

When I was tiny, I was the tantrum kid. Some called me a brat, others called me spoiled. I was always described as a light switch. Nobody knew why. Until now, that is.

I was born with Bipolar Disorder. That’s rare. Most people who wind up with it, do so in their mid-20’s. Some sort of psychotic break. I didn’t have that luxury. I didn’t get a normal childhood. I’ve never known anything else.

See, those tantrums had an actual cause. I was having feelings and emotions when I was even three years old, that most adults never have to experience. 

Spankings were fairly common for me. You can blame my parents all you want, but fact remains is that they simply didn’t know what was going on, and spanking was the way with their generation. You can’t go back in time and change that. But it did, in fact, cause other problems for me.

I was diagnosed with OCPD, just this week. What’s OCPD? It stands for Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. It’s not OCD in the sense that I have to flip a light switch six times when I get nervous, or repeatedly clean the same thing. From the very little I understand about it, it’s more about control. Control of myself, as well as needing to control everything and everyone around me.

One big thing is the need to follow rules. When I didn’t follow the rules, I was punished in what I experienced as excessive. “Excessive” is different in everyone’s unique experiences. Now, if someone doesn’t follow the rules, it irritates me to the point of anger. Driving too fast? You’re a jerk. Driving too slow? Get off the road, moron. Get “your” and “you’re” mixed? There’s no hope for you. Just stay off the internet.

Some things that those close to me may have noticed that indicate OCPD:

- Stiff, formal, or rigid mannerisms

- The overwhelming need to be punctual

- Extreme attention to detail

- Inability to share work out of fear it won’t be done correctly

- Fixation with lists

- Complete adherence to rules and regulations

- Overwhelming need for order

- A sense of righteousness about how things should be done

- Rigid adherence to moral and ethical codes

I was talking to a friend about this, and how it makes sense, no matter how much I didn’t want it to. But, now that I know, I can work on fighting it.  

Again, I understand very little. I mean, I only found out about this last Monday. What I read from one place stated that this is usually trauma-induced. Which definitely makes sense. And looking back, it seems to have been getting worse since my father retired, which increased both his narcissistic and hoarding traits. 

I’ve got a two-year plan to move out. I’ve been looking around at cities I could afford, and I’ve found some good small towns. I much prefer small towns, so here’s hoping I can do this!

No. Just... No.

I’m so over this...

Long story short, I have a birth control implant in my arm for the simple reason of keeping my moods from going haywire every month. It’s supposed to last three years. Yeah... I’ve had it just over a year, and it’s dead.

My mood stability has been debatable, at best, for a few days. Now I know why. Add pain so bad that I can barely breathe, and today is just awesome...

My last doctor said she wouldn’t do a hysterectomy until I was 35. She moved. Today, I called for an appointment with whoever replaced her, but nooo... They didn’t replace her, so they have two doctors for hundreds of patients. My appointment is now very near eight months away! I can’t do this for eight more months! 

I got a call from the nurse, who was actually sympathetic toward my reason for wanting the hysterectomy. She said she’d send a message to the doctor I’m supposed to see, and ask what her position on the matter was.

And now, we wait.

Oh, as if the cramps weren’t bad enough, I have a migraine! Those, too, have been controlled up til now. 

Dear body,

Stop.

Last Time

This is the last time I’m going to say this, so pay attention.

You don’t look at me when I sign, yet you continually complain that you don’t know what I’m saying. Funny how those two things go hand in hand.

You roll your eyes and straight up ignore me when I voice a complaint, yet you get upset if I’m not 110% attentive when you complain up and down, all evening long, about your job.

You say “Been there, done that”, or “You’ll survive” whenever I say something is wrong with me, but your broken fingernail needs my immediate attention and sympathy. 

I give and give and give. All I ask for in return is some sense that you actually care that I exist. It’s actually rather rare that I feel worthwhile around you. 

Fix this, before it’s too late.

Ik Slaap Te Veel

My life will never be normal.

Ok, so I started back at my usual, full dose of Seroquel a few days ago. Yesterday was the best I’ve been in weeks. It was absolutely amazing. Then there was last night...

I got a fabulous new reading chair for by bedroom, and apparently it’s a little too comfortable. I read for over an hour. Still didn’t get to bed late. I’d call 10:30 pretty average. But then I wasn’t able to get out of bed until 10:00 this morning.

It wasn’t the reading that did it. It’s the Seroquel. I’ve been up for an hour now, and I’m still so tired that I can barely function. 

The most annoying part is that, I have a routine. I go out for a walk around 9:15, then do aerobics around 10:30. Thanks to living in a desert, by the time I’m up and running today, it’ll be well over 80 degrees outside. Not ideal for exercise.

Med adjustments are never fun. You’ve got to figure out how to function all over again. Yay...

Dw i wedi blino. Trwy’r dydd.