Purging: November 30, 2017

There is a reason why I called this Blog Post "Purging". Trust me when I tell you that that's precisely what I am going to do. I indubitably need to clear my soul of this shackle and I intend on doing that today ... right here, right now.

My heart has been feeling heavy for some time now; it's strange, though. You see, while my soul feels free and enlightened, my emotions are heavy and drained. Is it possible to be both spiritually enlightened and emotionally, mentally and physically downcast? I suppose so, because that is exactly how I am feeling right now.

But, I am getting ahead of myself. To truly purge, I have to start from the beginning. But, the beginning is convoluted. It's a twisted string of threads, some older than others, worn and thinning, about to snap, while others are newer and still standing strong.
I know that I have to undo myself of all of the weight. Reason being, my PTSD has been raging at an all time high.
I can't sleep at night—bad dreams disturb me.
I can't be alone for too long—my thoughts asphyxiate me.
When someone does something that reminds me of the pain, it rattles me to the core—quivering nerves threaten to make me fall over.
I have been binge eating—I seek a repose from the anguish, food provides it.
Rationale fights against irrationality—neither win, it's a draw.
Focus feels like a myth or legend—something that once existed and is now gone

My personal hell is in my mind. It is the purgatory from which I am having trouble escaping.

Therefore, I purge. I expunge the restraints that want to keep me down. I let it go ... or at least try ... right now.

What I am currently dealing with is kin to a highway with many lanes all going to the same place but originating from completely different locations.
That place? My destruction.

In order to further clarify what I am getting at, I must start with the first lane ...

August of 2016 I took a job working for a nonprofit organization that helped special needs children and their families. I was passionate about this job because it hit home. Being that I am a mother of a special needs child, the idea of working for this organization appealed to me in myriad levels. Also, there was the added benefit that my son could actually be at work with me after school every day. It seemed perfect—just what he and I both needed. In my mind, I would be making money while helping in an area that spoke to my heart, and the added benefit was that I could do this with my child en tow. Not every mother has that advantage.

The job proved to be a difficult one, but nevertheless, I woke up every morning—rain, sleet, or snow—and went to work because I'd convinced myself that this organization and the families it "helped" needed me. On top of that, was the fact that the organization would fall apart without me. I'd become the backbone that held everything together.

Every week there was a new element of chaos that worked its way into the organization, and every week, like clockwork I would iron things out. To say that I gave MY ALL to this place would be putting it lightly. I gave MY ALL and then some. Willingly, I depleted every bit of reserved energy I had just to help this place function.

I had a boss who was, in a word, horrific. This woman had no concept of common sense, business sense, etiquette, boundaries and acceptable behavior. She was the embodiment of a plebeian—no class, no ... shit, well, no nothing. How she functioned in this field was beyond my comprehension.

Month after month, day after god-awful day, I trucked along; every day things got worse. The problems grew in the inner functioning of the organization with expediency and I had to sprint to keep up. Yet, I was never appreciated or commended. On the contrary, the boss always found a way of blaming me for THEIR (her and her co-operator's) mistakes. To say that I was perturbed ... well. Huh! You can only imagine. 

One day, it came to my attention that the organization was running out of money and layoffs were immanent. Before I knew it, like an avalanche of insanity, I was laid off along with the one and only colleague that I had any respect and love for. She and I were the hardest working individuals in that place, yet we were the first to go. I won't get into the logistics of why because if I do I will never finish this post.

All of the sudden, like an unexpected punch in the gut, this enormous plight came to my attention. My ex-co-worker and I were being implicated of illegal activity towards the company. We were being accused of having disclosed private information and breaching HIPAA laws, of malicious plotting towards the organization, of defaming the owner's character, and innumerable other things that I don't care to get into.

ALL! OUTRIGHT! LIES!

And, the proof she claimed to have wasn't even proof. It was tidbits of correspondence that had been completely taken out of context. Truth be told, I had more reputable, substantial and tangible proof of her barbarous and unlawful acts. That is besides the point, though.

The point being that I was wholly, completely, utterly and undoubtedly traumatized! This entire situation reactive my PTSD in a way that really, truly destroyed me.

Next thing I know I am collecting unemployment, losing my son's Social Security Disability Benefits (which at the time was my only means of income), having to apply for food stamps (which was like pulling teeth) and fully behind on my bills. On top of it all, my health had plummeted to the point of no return.

I am currently disabled. While I am attempting the process of obtaining Disability for myself, this can take six to nine months.

I have YET to recover from all of the harm that this caused me, and I feel like I never will.

Before I knew it, I was being offered a job at an organization that did the same thing as the last place, doing the same job as the last place, but only offering me part time hours. The reason I accepted it was because I could work from home. With my disability getting so bad, I had no choice BUT to work from home. I've been rendered immobile.

You are not going to believe me when I tell you that this place ... it's worse than the last. Now, it too is going under.

Still, I have yet to recover.

My finances are shot to shit, I have NO money, struggle every waking day with my illness, am consumed by stress, and worry every hour of the day about how I am going to pay my bills, take care of my son, pay my rent, etc ... ect ... etc!

I was a teen mom. I had my first child when I was 17-years-old and my second child when I was 19-years-old. At the age of 20 I was a single mother, working 2 jobs and going to school in order to obtain some sort of education so that I could better me and my children's lives.

At that time, I was living in Florida. I'd rented a 4 bedroom house in Fort Lauderdale (which I paid for) and my parents lived with me. This seemed to be a very convenient set up as my parents could look after my kids while I worked and went to school.

Whenever I got pain, I would take my check, cash it and put the entire sum of it in my mother's hands. She was in charge of paying the bills, buying the food and things of that nature. I simply did not have the time. I trusted her to do it. My trust was misplaced, to say the least.

But, that is a story for another day.

One night, I got home from my overnight shift as the cleaning lady in the local old-folks home to find a note tucked under my pillow. At first, I thought it was a mistake. Maybe one of the kids had put it there. Regardless, I opened it up to see what it was. The note was addressed to me. It was not a note, but a love letter.
It was a letter professing his undying love for me. It carried on to say the things he "loved about me" and how he would want just one thing from me ... "a kiss". The letter dictated that he was convinced that this kiss would prove how we were destined to be together forever. After two sides of mushy lovey-dovey stuff, I noted the signature.

HE, was my father.

I was rendered speechless and sick to my stomach all at once. I didn't know what to do, what to say, how to act, or even where to look. I couldn't look him in the eyes, that was for sure.

I couldn't understand it. I simply could not wrap my head around it.

WHY, in the name of all things holy, was MY FATHER sending ME a love letter?

Torn apart, as well as discussed, I responded, and my response was short and to the point.

"NO! Absolutely NOT! YOU ARE MY FATHER!"

Leaving the letter under my pillow, as I was instructed to do with my reply, I carried on with my day. The following day, another note.

"You don't understand, Yasmin. I don't see you as my daughter. I see you as a beautiful woman. The woman I am meant to be with. The love of my life. You are it. As a matter of fact, our connection is even deeper because we share the same blood."

For approximately a month, this exchange of letters went on. He insisted that we were meant to be, and I insisted that he was a sick man who needed help. That would NEVER happen.

Suffice it to say that tensions rose in our living arrangement. Things got funky. He would, "Accidentally" barge into the bathroom when I was in it. Due to a broken lock there wasn't much I could do about it. He looked for every opportunity to try and grope me. It was like living with a stalker, but this stalker was your father. How do you handle that?

One day, my mother stumbled upon the letters. What transpired then was like a blur, all of it going slow and fast all at the same time.

She screamed, cried, hollered and carried on. My father yelled as he defended his case. I held my children as I cried. And, before I knew it, fingers were being pointed at me. 

I was to blame! It was all my fault.

My relationship with my parents was never good to begin with and now it was even worse.

Since that time, my father has never given up on his dream of being with me and it's been more than 20 years. My mother still holds a grudge towards me, blaming me for stealing my father's affection. And I keep my stance.

I remember time and time again wishing, even praying, that he die. Literally. I asked God to relieve me of the burden by just taking him to heaven already. Then there were times when I prayed, asking God to change his mind and heart. None of that ever happened. With time, I grew to hate him and resent him deeply. Yet, my emotions felt conflicted because, at the end of it all, he is my father. I love my father. These paradoxical emotions persist.

The effects that linger are residual tidbits of anger and resentment. They towards me and I towards them.

To this day, whenever I am with someone, my father acts like a jealous child. He does and says things that make absolutely no sense and, in turn, make my life twice as hard. Whenever I am dating someone, he goes out of his way to make our lives hell. He makes snide little comments, throwing shade, whenever I am dating or in a relationship with someone. It is the most hideous, heinous behavior any father can indulge in.

I moved away from Florida about three years now. I needed and wanted to be far away from my family.

This morning, he called me under the pretense of asking me if I'd heard anything from my daughter. But, what it really was, was an opportunity to ask me about my new beau. Then, he drops in a convenient, "Well, I gave you an opportunity, but you didn't want it." Once again, I am sick to my stomach. It's a putrid way to live. The bile in my throat is the disdain and disgust I have for him as a person, for the hell he's put me through and for the bond that was severed.
As I drove my best friend to work this morning before using her car to go to the food pantry, I stewed.
Pure, unadulterated, ravaging hate and pain. This was all I could feel right then and there. Hate. I HATED him so fucking much at that moment for repeatedly bringing this into my life when I never asked for it. HOW DARE HE!

Then, guilt. How can a daughter hate her father? Especially when, to some degree, he has been a good father her entire life. Or, has he? I no longer know.

As if I am not going through enough with the weight of my financial situation and my father's bullshit, I get hit with yet another "mistake" by Social Security regarding my son's check. Yet another fuck up that hit's me in the gullet.
Once again, my bills are going to be late, partially paid or unpaid. I don't know how much longer I can do this. I am out of gas. I just want life to stop for a minute. For. One. Goddamned. Minute. Please, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph ... let me breathe!

I had to go to the food pantry this morning to get some groceries. This makes me feel like shit. I do it because I have no choice, but I passionately hate having to. I know that it's probably a pride thing. I understand this. That by no means subtracts from me despise.

My health is on a steady decline. I was diagnosed with 3 autoimmune diseases as well as a handful of other shit. Last I counted, 8 sicknesses. It's a wonder I even get up in the morning.
There is some much more to what I am feeling and thinking about Lane 5, but I will talk about that at another time.

Impending changes are happening to our (the one I share with my bestie and son) household and while I know they are necessary and not all bad, there is a large part of me that is feeling anxious. It is because a combination of factors which I don't want to get into right now. But, the anxiety is growing exponentially. I pray that my jitters are unwarranted.

With all of that ... My biggest concern??

I need to purge lest I altogether crash.

They say ...

 Well ... that remains to be seen. Sometimes, I feel like God forgot that he only made ONE of me.