How untreated mental illness ruins relationships

Trigger warning: Mental illness, verbal abuse.

Hello, my pretties! How are you all doing? Well, I hope!

I know I haven’t been around much, but I’m trying not to completely abandon the blog, I promise. I won’t be posting as often as I once did, I guess, but I’ll still drop by here whenever I feel like I have something to say.

Today I come to talk a bit more about mental health, which is a theme that’s near and dear to my heart, mostly because I suffer with poor mental health myself.

I was thinking about someone who is not in my life anymore, Mike (name changed for privacy).

Mike was my boyfriend for a few years. He was a friend of a friend (like 99% of my significant others), and, when we met, he seemed nice enough. I fell for him really quickly, as you do. I’m a bit better about it, but I used to be very quick to fall for anyone who could strike my fancy. At first, he wanted to be just friends. It hurt, but I accepted it, and we carried on as friends until, at some point, he decided he wanted more than that. We started dating, and, at some point down the line, he was spending a lot of time in my apartment, more than at home. I didn’t mind, at first.

Now, Mike suffered from depression and anxiety, and I knew that before he started mostly living with me. What I did not know was that I was signing up for a living hell. At first, life was okay. But then he started acting very paranoid and weird. Losing his ever-loving mind every time I went out without him, which happened at least once a week, as I liked going to the store after work, and that happened before he came home from work. Sometimes, I’d meet a relative at the mall attached to the store and let him know we’d stop for a cup of coffee. At first, he was fine with it, but as time went by, he started demanding pictures to prove I was with the person I said I was with.

And then, when I got home, all hell broke loose. Coming home 10 minutes later because I had gotten stuck in traffic turned into me cheating on him and my relative covering up for me. Me not wanting him to read my emails also turned into me talking to other men. Me forgetting to get something he wanted but hadn’t put on the list from the store turned into me doing it to spite him. And it all turned into screaming matches, tears and rants about how I was just as bad as his ex, blah blah blah. It was nerve-wracking, but I swallowed my tears and words. Until I learned that he was stopping his meds cold turkey every now and then for some reason (a part of me thinks he did it to punish me, for… something, but I don’t think I’ll ever know).

I have to admit I was pissed. Knowing he was making this decision to make my life a living hell really got to me. I have no idea how I refrained myself enough to simply pack his stuff when he was at work, put everything at the entrance hall and change my locks. Because I have to admit what I wanted to do was much less calm than that.

After he calmed down, he tried to contact me several times, going on about how he missed me. How he knew he was being abusive, but he was in therapy and much better now. When that gave him nothing, he started using mutual friends to relay messages, and they started becoming aggressive again. Sadly, I had to cut contact with some friends as well, because I couldn’t trust them not to keep telling me about his life and vice-versa.

Moral of this story? I’m not saying you have to take meds, that’s between you and your care provider. But whatever treatment you’re involved in, please, for your sake and for the sake of those you love, don’t just interrupt it, especially to ‘show them’, or what have you.

Well, that is it for today. I really hope this post hasn’t upset, offended or triggered anyone. Please take good care of yourselves! See you all on the next post!

How I lost my faith

Hello, my pretties! How are you all doing? Well, I hope!

I’m here today to talk about something that won’t be easy to talk about. But that’s pretty much all I do here, right? Talk about things and open up on things I never felt like I could share with anyone.

Without further ado, let’s dive right into it.

First things first, my parents are very religious. I am not. But I used to be. From the age of 6 until my late 20s, I believed in the religion I was raised in. I believed everything was right, and that they were teaching me the right things. That is, until you had different needs. Until you didn’t feel like the life of living for the religion, for God, for marriage and children was for you.

Until I developed migraines and being in the brightly lit and cold Kingdom Hall made me so sick. But I had to go. God would be mad at me if I didn’t.

Or I would come home from work the next day and find myself locked out of the house, because our door allowed us to close people off even if they had a key. Or I would see my bedroom raided for proof of whatever sin my mother was looking for.

Or my personal items given away because a member of the “family” needed it more than I did. Or my bedroom occupied by “them” because they needed a place to stay, now be a dear and cook dinner for us all.

I still attended the meetings while I lived with my mother, but I didn’t believe anymore. I felt like less than. I felt used. And I felt so lonely when she refused to sit with me because I had rushed in from work wearing pants. It was so embarrassing, go sit at the back and don’t get up until everyone has gone away, this way they won’t see you. But wait… do you have your book? Yes, mom, I do. Okay. Give it to me, so-and-so hasn’t brought theirs, and they need one.

Get so-and-so a job , she needs one. What do you mean you couldn’t get her a job? I don’t care that she got late to the interview and didn’t have the necessary skills. We take care of each other. Funny how nobody ever took care of me.

What do you mean you can’t leave work early to go ou with everyone? Figure out a way. They are your family. And then everyone was talking behind my back about how unsociable I was. Can’t we do this on Saturday or Sunday? I’m free in the weekends. No, we can’t. If you cared you’d come on Fridays. 

It’s so hard to put it in words, and this probably sounds like a jumbled mess. And now my dad’s a member of this religion as well, and it cuts me. Every time I call them and ask if we can see each other after work and the answer is no, we’re spending time with the brothers and sisters. If only you would come back to God. She’s still a member, she’s just taking a break from God. Why won’t you come back? We need you. You are smart, you know things. Help us.

I did help. I did try.

Back when my brother stopped attending, I would ask my mother can we please have family study? No, we can’t. It’s not family study without your brother. I guess I’m not family then. I should have given up back then and saved myself the heartbreak.

Maybe I could have saved the years of having my things raided for evidence of sin, the getting yelled at for being a ‘whore’ when I had my first crush at the ripe old age of ten, accused of showing off my body for the boys at school, accused of being a satanist because I had RPG books, and of course they were satanic. Accused of sleeping with several men because I had met a guy online.

I don’t know. I don’t think that’s what God wants from his followers. Is it? If it is, I’m better off this way.

Well. This was a jumbled mess. TL;DR: I’m whining about why I’m no longer religious.

If you are, I respect you and your faith. I just lost mine.

See you all on the next post!

Fond memories of grandma

Hello, my pretties! How are you all? Doing well, I hope!

I have been doing well enough myself. I’m working on the holidays, which is not a very happy moment, especially because I always had them off so far, but I’ll survive. I have been really tired, but that’s only to be expected, with it being the end of the year and all.

With the life update out of the way, let’s get right into the post subject, shall we?

I don’t know if you guys read Marie Kondo’s blog. I confess I am a bit of a minimalist, but I don’t really subscribe to everything she writes. I like her tidying up tips, and honestly, I like watching her fold things. There, I confessed it.

I went off-topic there, but you people know me, right? I’m the queen of off-topic. Back on topic now.

I read Marie’s post about her grandmother (click here to read) and it sparked memories of my own grandmother.

A bit of context: I lived close to my paternal grandmother for most of my life, but she never considered me her grandchild. My experiences with her were mostly negative, and I had to be forced to go visit her, only to be ignored for the duration of my visits. Fun times.

My maternal grandmother lived across the country, and I spent summers around her. When I was a child, she was already disabled due to a few strokes, so she used crutches, then later a wheelchair, and her right hand was permanently closed. It didn’t really matter to me – she was grandma, and I loved her so much.

Since she spent a lot of the time in her bedroom, I stayed there a lot as well. I was a quiet child, and the company of the elderly was always soothing to me. I would sit on the floor or on her bed and just listen to her. She had so many stories from the old times to share, having lived her whole life in a small town, and I ate those up. My grandfather – I sadly didn’t have the chance to know him – was a great storyteller, and after he passed, she took up the mantle.

As my grandpa and grandma had a lot of friends, people always came to visit and left a little something. When they left candy, my aunts complained – as my grandmother was diabetic -, but she loved it, because she would then call the grandchildren to her and sneak them a little piece of candy before lunch.

I lost her when I was 15, sadly, and it broke me in a way I can’t put in words. But the long hours sitting with her and hearing her speak, lighting the candles on the little altar she kept in her bedroom – she was a devout Catholic – and hearing her bless us all with “May God and the Virgin Mary bless your life” still warm my heart now, more than twenty years later.

Alright, I think I’ll end this trip down memory lane here, before I start crying.

Do  you all have any fond memories of your own grandparents to share? I’d love to hear them!

See you all on the next post!