":::sigh:::: As I told Crys the other night, this probably sounds REALLY silly and stupid, but...I learned a few days ago that one of my favorite rock stars is in rehab for alcoholism and addiction to painkillers. It's breaking my heart, and I'm lost in a downward spiral...
Part of what has always drawn me to James {Hetfield, of Metallica}, other than his lyrics, is that he reminds me SO much of my dad. They share(d) a lot of attitudes about things, personality traits, likes and dislikes, background, the way they talk, etc. AND alcoholism...
So I'm very sad that it's come to this for James..it looked for a while, that he'd beaten his demons. But that's not the whole of it. Just as I can't get James out of my head, I can't get Dad out of my head...The time where he was sooo drunk and sat on me...I couldn't breathe. I said over and over, "Daddy, you're hurting me, daddy you're hurting me." But he never heard. There's was nothing left to do but scratch at his legs...but at the time I didn't know that they very drunk are oblivious to pain. I passed out eventually. He thought I just went to sleep. He left, and forgot about the whole thing. I never reminded him. I told Mom, but she did nothing. Guess she didn't want to make Grandma, who was visiting at the time, uncomfortable. Too late, partly. My cousin was there. She saw the whole thing. And she was more than embarrased. She was scared shitless. Then there's the time he was holding Mom down in the bedroom. She hollored at me to call the sherriff. I was doing just that..until HE started to come after me. I felt/feel like a coward for not making that call. I was eight when both things happened.
Lying awake at night crying over James and Dad, one thought leads to another. I thought of how angry I still am that I never was allowed to tell Dad that I was molested. He was too sick with cancer at the time to do anything about it, but something in me wanted, NEEDED him to know. But I wasn't allowed to tell, because it would stress HIM out, and of course, my Mom just went happily along ignoring the whole thing.
Thinking about that led to thinking about when I was in high school...I had to accept rides to school w/ a neighbor in his seventies...He called me "baby", and I almost lost it. One day he touched my hair and said it was pretty. I shook all over inside...I wanted to jump out of the car and vomit. Thinking about THAT made me think, if I cannot stand to be touched, how can anyone love me...And it appears true. No one in my physical presence seems to love me (unconditionally), except my cats...WAIT... change that to cat..Joey and I don't get along. Thinking of THAT, had me all prepared to take a heaping dose of Seroquel. But I changed my mind and took just enough to get to sleep.
;;;sigh::: SO, I managed to make it to my psychiatrist and group therapy appts. And well, to put it crudely, it sucked. I have been praying for the last four or five months that he would let me try something else, maybe Wellbutrin...It didn't happen. He's giving me 60 mgs of more wretched Prozac, which after 15 months of taking, I have learned will not do SHIT. He says we'll wait three weeks, and if there's no improvement we'll go to something else, but part of me doesn't know if I HAVE three weeks. Group therapy, ::sigh:: when I can make it, has become very frustrating. There's this woman named Maria...she's nice, but when you get her started in therapy, she will not SHUT UP or yield to anyone else. And a lot of time, she's hardly discussing a pressing problem. Today she spent the whole hour basically telling us over and over that some dumb cluck owes her 600 dollars. I spent the entire session staring at the floor. Yippie..
(Sorry everyone, but I was in a desprate need of a rant.)"