Our Hospital Visit & PTSD Work

I saw this quiz on Facebook and decided to try it. Here are my results:

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid Personality Disorder:	Low
Schizoid Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Schizotypal Personality Disorder:	Low
Antisocial Personality Disorder:	Low
Borderline Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Histrionic Personality Disorder:	Low
Narcissistic Personality Disorder:	Low
Avoidant Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Dependent Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder:	Moderate
-- Take the Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Info --

So it's nice to know I'm just moderately nuts in some areas! I'm surprised there was nothing for anxiety and depression. Those are the areas my diagnoses lie. Anyway...

Starting backwards, today I got up and was off and running almost right away. TB wasn't bleeding and was in relative comfort so I took Kristin to school and then went for my therapy appointment. For the last month, I've been working a program used by the military to diminish symptoms of PTSD. I've never been to war but it seems I have PTSD from growing up in another kind of war zone, the home of two alcoholic angry deaf adults.

One thing I've been working on is called "stuck points". They are areas where I've given myself an incorrect message because of something that happened to me. An example is when my mom found my writing, read it, and went all ballistic all over me. That's the incident. The message I tell myself, writing is bad; writing is not safe. The feeling is shame. There are hundreds of these "stuck points". Another one is where my parents were fighting and beating on each other. In terror, my brother and I ran from the house to our neighbor's. What I told myself is that I should have been able to stop the fight and didn't; I ran away instead. The feel is inadequacy.

With that example, my therapist wanted to know what I would tell the younger me. I thought about it and said I would say I'd done the best I could and it wasn't right that I should be put in that position. The therapist pointed out something I wasn't aware of. She said my affect was that of an orator and that I was disconnected from what happened. She said through all this, she's never seen me cry. She seemed surprised.

I told her there's no point in crying. It doesn't change anything and all you get for it is swollen eyes, hitching breath and a stuffy nose. She wondered when was the last time I cried and I can't remember. I'm sure it was after Rich died but then after that--say the last 5 years--I just have no clue.

The therapist thinks I've got repression going on, a defense mechanism to protect myself against painful feelings. That doesn't surprise me. I know I can detach from my feelings very easily. I also have a wall up that no one gets through. Will any of this change? After all, I'm 56 years old and have been using these defenses my whole life. Still, I have to try.

I would like to feel whole. I've often heard Dr. Phil tell parents that if they fight in front of their kids or abuse them or expose them to bad things, it changes the child forever. It's true. My brother and I were forever changed.

TB's surgery was a success! The procedure was done at the same hospital where we had our duodenal switches, Lourdes Medical Center. We really are impressed with this hospital and continue to be in spite of the mix-up in what time we were supposed to report. TB originally had an appointment with his orthopedic doctor in the morning because surgery was to be in the afternoon. However, we were told initially to report at 9 and so he had to cancel his appointment. Then they called back after it was too late and said oops, surgery is in the afternoon, come in at 11.

I had an up and down experience with the cafeteria. I went in at 11 to get a cup of coffee and found the door was locked. The vending machines outside didn't have coffee so I checked the time to see when I could come back. As I was doing that, the manager of the place saw me and said although the place was closed for half an hour, I could wait there. "Could I buy a cup of coffee?" I wondered. She smiled and said, "You can HAVE a cup of coffee." Ah! What a nice person. After TB went up for surgery I returned for a bite to it. There were no prices listed anywhere and no grilled cheese so I took a chance on a single slice of pizza and an iced tea to mix my protein with. It cost me just under five dollars!!!! For those two bitty things! Yikes, I felt like I was on Jersey Turnpike! So they got back they money for that first coffee. ;)

Dr. David Greenbaum did the surgery so we knew TB would be in good hands. Dr. Greenbaum also did our duodenal switches. He called me in the waiting room to tell me everything had gone well and TB would be back downstairs for me to see him in about an hour. Because TB missed his appointment with the orthopedic doctor, Dr. Greenbaum refilled his script for one of his pain medications.

So TB is holding up pretty well. His next big adventure is getting his tooth pulled on Saturday.

Moved to a town that was right for me

Throughout the 1970s, I tried to break free of my parents. The first time was in 1974. My mother overdosed on sinequan and I tried to call the ambulance--but my dad hung up. He didn't want to be embarrassed, so I called the doctor. The doctor just said, "Get her up and walking. If she won't walk, you'll have to go to the ER."

My dad and I dragged my mother out of bed and began walking her around. Luckily either there weren't enough pills in the bottle or they just didn't affect my mother the way she thought they might. She began to wake up and eventually came to herself. By then, I was a nervous wreck.

I called the pastor of the Deaf church, told him what was going on and was relieved to hear him say, "Pack a bag and get the hell out of there. Come to the church."

I threw some clothes and all my journals into my suitcase. I told my mother I had to go away for a while. She nodded sadly and said she understood.

The pastor was surprised at how heavy the suitcase was. When he found out it was full of journals, he busted out laughing. Still they were of more value to me than anything else I owned. I stayed with the pastor, his wife and mother for the weekend and got some pretty intensive crisis counseling.

They found a place for me to stay. It was a boardinghouse run by the Methodist Church. I had a room of my own and shared the bathroom and eating facilities with all the other women. There was a couple of large rooms with TVs. Breakfast and dinner was included and I could easily afford it. I was happy!

My dad came down to try and talk me into moving back home and I said, no thanks.

That experience in the boarding house helped me break out of my shell. I made some casual friends and we'd go out to eat or to the movies. For the first time, I could sleep at night without feeling like I needed to be on guard for noises in the night which could be my parents drinking or fighting.

Eventually I saved enough money from my job and moved into an apartment with a co-worker. We began to socialize with other people at work and from the church. We had parties. That's when I began to drink and unfortunately, that did get to be out of control. Still, I felt free for the first time.

I was on my own for 3 years. Meanwhile, my parents moved from Baltimore to Laurel, which was closer to Washington DC where my dad worked. My brother had also moved out by then and my parents didn't see any point in staying in a big townhouse by themselves.

Then I was recommended by my boss (who became a good friend over the years) to the director of the National Center for Law & the Deaf in Washington DC. I would be making a lot more money and it was a big jump up for me. I decided to take it and reluctantly arranged to live with my parents until I could find my own place. Big mistake.

The night before I was to move, my mother showed up at the apartment. She was covered with bruises and said she'd left my father. One of the advantages (heh)of growing up the way I did was that I learned to think fast on my feet. I called my soon-to-be former boss and said I needed a place in Washington near Gallaudet--right away.

She had gone to Gallaudet for the masters program and so she knew A LOT of people. She hooked me up with two guys renting a house right across the street from the college who were looking for 2 roommates. So when I went to my new job, I was living in that new, strange house and I'd taken my mother and cat with me.

The two guys, involved in the drama department, were Deaf and gay and pretty cool. It looked like it would be all right.

And then my father found us a week later. First he showed up at my new job and I went to lunch with him to get rid of him. After work, he must have followed me home because the following day he came back and said everything was fine and my mom had gone "home" with him and that I was welcome to go too.

I was shocked and pissed. I drove to my parents' place after my dad went to work and found my mother lying on the couch. She could barely move and was having trouble breathing. What's wrong? I asked. She told me she'd fallen on the stairs at the new house. Living here would be safer because there were no stairs for her to fall on.

Uh. Right.

She looked terrible and I told her I was calling an ambulance. She argued with me but I did it anyway and off we went to the ER. The doctor told me my mother had some broken ribs and that one of them had punctured her lung. It was partially collapsed. My mother was being admitted to the ICU.

Well...I felt like I had to move back with them to protect my mother. If I was there, maybe I could prevent the violence.

So that time I lived with my parents two years.

One night my mother had been drinking and became totally irrational. That particular night, my brother and his best friend were there. They were staying for the weekend or something and she started off trying to pick a fight with them. They wisely left and went out and I retreated to my room and locked the door.

My mother opened the door with an ice pick and came in wielding it. Enough was too much and I ran out of the apartment. I drove to a friend's and stayed overnight.

At that point, I was finally getting counseling for the panic attacks I was suffering. I called the doctor and he made an emergency appointment to see me. When I told him what happened, he said I needed to convince my father to have my mother committed to the hospital.

Hmph. I already knew that wasn't going to happen. I also decided I needed to move out again. My temporary stay with my friend became six months until I could find my own place. Once again, it was a relief and a big burden off my shoulders when I moved out. Now I was working as an interpreter for the Deaf and made a whole new group of friends.

Things were great for 2 years and then my car engine seized at both ends. I couldn't get to work and couldn't pay any bills. My parents said, oh, we're buying a mobile home. Come and live with us, you'll save lots of money. You can use our car!

Again, big mistake. That was 1979 and I was totally miserable there. The panic attacks, which had abated, were back in full force and I was filled with rage. I began attending Al-Anon and ACOA (adult children of alcoholics) meetings.

In 1980, it was this song that moved me:

Funky Town by Lipps, Inc.

Gotta make a move to a
Town that's right for me
Town to keep me movin'
Keep me groovin' with some energy

Well, I talk about it
Talk about it
Talk about it
Talk about it
Talk about, Talk about
Talk about movin

Gotta move on
Gotta move on
Gotta move on

Won't you take me to
Funkytown
Won't you take me to
Funkytown
Won't you take me to
Funkytown
Won't you take me to
Funkytown

Gotta make a move to a
Town that's right for me
Town to keep me movin'
Keep me groovin' with some energy

Well, I talk about it
Talk about it
Talk about it
Talk about it
Talk about, Talk about
Talk about movin

Gotta move on
Gotta move on
Gotta move on

Won't you take me to
Funkytown
Won't you take me to
Funkytown
Won't you take me to
Funkytown
Won't you take me to
Funkytown


I had to get away or I would lose my mind.

My beloved grandmother died in May, 1980. We went to Long Island for the funeral and my mother and I stayed behind in Grandma's cottage to help my aunt and uncles sort through everything.

I was surrounded by my cousins, aunts and uncles again and hit with strong nostalgia for the town in which I'd grown up. I began to think of Long Island as my Funky Town. What if I just stayed? What if I didn't go back with my mother?

I approached my uncles. They wanted to sell my grandmother's cottage but needed to have it fixed up first. It was a buyer's market then and might stand empty awhile and they didn't like the idea. I suggested they rent it to me. What a great idea! Even better, my cousin saw this as an opportunity to become independent too and said she'd like to share the cottage with me.

Free at last, free at last, Thank God Almighty, I was free at last!

I did leave Long Island again--but not to go live with my parents! When I married my first husband, Rich, we realized we wouldn't be able to afford Long Island if we wanted both a house and family. And so we moved back to Maryland--at least an hour's drive from my parents! But that is another story.

Usually I like to keep it light and do some cat blogging on Fridays but I didn't have any new pictures or stories. I did find this, however. I wish I'd been at their wedding.