Why am I here? (nonexistentially, that is)

I am taking the leap into the world of blogging. Over the past few years, I have found writing to be incredibly therapeutic. It has allowed me the opportunity to process my emotions and experiences. While writing, I have shed tears and laughed out loud (when I find myself funny or the situation ridiculous) and ultimately found a sense of peace.

Once upon a time, I primarily used FB to share pictures and info on the various dogs and cats we foster for a local rescue (MASRescue.org).  And then I began to post typical mom pics of my kids as they grew too quickly. I took a long hiatus when I was going through my divorce. I found the loss of friends and the creation of fiction about my divorce too overwhelming to post anything personal for commentary (note: people with boring lives will make up drama. No facts required). But this year, after therapy, reconnecting with my college sweetheart and marrying the love of my life, I started a sort of facebook diary about living through my mother’s regression with fronto temporal dementia.

My mom attended our wedding at the end of 2018 and danced the night away. Two weeks later, we had to place her in a facility when her behavior had escalated and she was dangerous to herself and our family. My mother had “hit and run” a few cars in parking lots over the months preceding which meant police visits to our home and my unmet pleas to remove her license, she drove her car after her license had finally been revoked (I had to physically remove her car keys from her clutched hand after her bff informed me that she had not passed the MVA test, drive the car to Carmax, and sell it so that it was no longer a part of our lives; I also hid our car keys so she couldn’t “borrow” a vehicle). She then booked travel to Montreal with the intention of obtaining a Canadian driver’s license (hoping her place of birth would be more reasonable in allowing a person with dementia to operate a motor vehicle), tried to buy a house in New England so she could go live by herself, had open fires in the kitchen (and would, mesmerized, stare at them as the smoke alarms blared away, told innumerable stories about me to anyone who would listen, etc.

(And if you know anyone with any kind of dementia, they are fabulous at sharing created stories which depict the ones closest to them as thieves, harbingers of ill will, physically abusive people, anything and everything. Please read about the symptoms of the disease- its easy to google- and perhaps even visit the person and assess the situation for yourself before making accusations. Causing or creating more drama for caretakers is not helpful. And if you are the caregiver and find yourself in a situation where friends or family members are making accusations, suggest the person with dementia go stay with their “hero/ine” for two weeks so that they can get a much needed break from you, the abusive one. I promise the results are life changing for everyone. And you will be amazed at how quickly two weeks can be shortened.)

Of course, it took quite a long time: several years, power of attorney, placement of my mother in a facility, culling through the remnants of her dementia hoarding, and losing relationships to be able to begin to work on and process my personal reflections.

I was in the midst of a divorce (lucky me! because you know… life) when my mother’s condition segued from alarming to horrible. I could not understand nor contemplate how everything seemed to be falling and failing simultaneously. There was nothing funny about any of it. But now that I find myself in a place of safety, both physically and emotionally, I am able to sort through some of the crazy and wretched and hope that someone else may find solace or comfort in something I write. I knew, or hoped, that one day, something would be resolved. Or even just better. And I always try to find the funny (eventually).

I was scared of baring my truth and sharing my experiences. But I was also exhausted at feeling misunderstood. My first few posts resulted in friends reaching out to me to share their own experiences- past and current- that were familiar. I was thanked for exposing my thoughts and experiences as others also struggle and found my writings relatable. I was encouraged (and I am grateful) to continue to document my journey. I was hooked. Something that could help me process my own challenges and help others… my new found capacity to be vulnerable (even topic-specific) made me feel dizzy with freedom and fear. But the ability to perhaps help others feel less lost or alone in dealing with this version of Dante’s inferno on earth, has motivated me to focus on the freeing sensation and the possibility of helping someone, anyone, feel less burdened and overwhelmed.

Posting was not always fabulous. I discovered that I was still connected to people with whom I no longer had a relationship. One person reached out to request an interview for her program of study. She wanted to delve into the pain I experienced. Oh, and then she asked how I had been doing but not before illuminating how sharing my time could help her. Since she had not inquired about, nor shown any concern for me over many years, I removed her from my “friend” group. Timing, delivery and context are important… so is compassion. I felt none for her studies.

I also received messaging from a relative who could not bother to attend my wedding but thanked me for taking care of his relative. Something about how he kept referring to my mother as “his aunt” and never as my mom, and how this was hard for him, was extremely … not quite sure which descriptive noun to use here as so many come to mind. Suffice it to say, I chose to think of my mother’s condition as being something that I was more connected to, more damaged by. I resented the absence of any/ all sympathy as to how I might be doing. I resented the lack of recognition of my closeness and attachment to my mom. I resented him.

I grew to resent those I thought had been close to me, who did not respect or honor the pain I felt, that did not reach out to provide any support when I thought I had been present for them during some of their darkest hours. It was one thing for them to question my decision about getting a divorce, to state (condescendingly) that they were concerned for my children with absolutely no knowledge of what we had all experienced, to completely miss the fact that the divorce was the best thing I could do for my children, to choose not to attend my wedding, to elect not to provide any emotional support to me or my girls… but to write about how my mother’s condition affected them… instant deletion (although I did wait until just after posting about my husband’s adoption of my girls. I was hoping the fact that their birth father must have signed off on his parental rights- that this fact would be noted, processed, absorbed, tasted so that a very sour sensation flooded their mouths, hauntings of bad judgment floated in their temporal lobes, and a realization of inaccurate and unfair conclusions with a dash of desertion might permeate their very beings. I doubt any of this occurred but it makes me smile.)

Concurrently, I have begun to consider my place in life in a more ethereal manner. Having two teens, one in college, and the other looking forward to her upcoming escape, can do that to you. At the age of 51, I have culled those in my life who were emotionally abusive or unhelpful. I have finally reached a place and a space where I know what is right for me and even though I cannot influence the behavior of others, I am responsible for my reactions to that behavior.

And now that I am finally able to exhale and it seems a good time to write and share some of my thoughts in the hope that others may find something relatable and feel less alone. To write is to think and to think is to process and to process is to heal. May you not feel alone (if you do, please reach out to a mental health professional immediately) and may all of you find yourself successful in the process of healing and eventual thriving.

Thank you for joining me.