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Archive for December, 2010

Via a friend who lives down south, I just found out about a dog rescue organization that is very, very close to going under.  It particularly touches my heart, because if my dear Hudson needed to be rescued from a pound, he is the kind of dog they would try to rescue, as he’s a big ol’ shaggy dog when he hasn’t been clipped recently.  Also…the dog of my childhood was a samoyed/golden retriever mix who looked a lot like a grand pyrenees.  Looking at these dogs is like looking Sarah in the face, 14 years after she passed.

I know winter makes money tight for people, so here’s what I’m asking: If you can donate, please donate what you can afford without leaving yourself in need.  Whether or not you can donate, please boost the signal via your blogs, your facebook, and any other methods you have that might get this to other people who can help.

You can find them at www.bigfluffydogs.com.  They posted about their need for funding on their facebook page here: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=486508216181&set=a.73633861181.73948.28214716181&comments.

Hudson doesn’t have much interest in most toys, except the really expensive puzzle toys (which are a little out of our league for this year), so I am donating the $10 I would have spent getting him silly things to the Big Fluffy Dog Rescue.

This is probably my last post before Christmas, so I will wish all of you who celebrate Christmas a Merry Christmas.  (for those of you who celebrate Channukah or Solstice, I apologize for not wishing you a happy holiday before your holiday.  For those of you who celebrate kwanzaa, I may or may not post again before then, so Happy Kwanzaa.  And as one of my uncles says every year, happy festivus to the rest of us!)

~Kali

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I have to start this by saying that it has been about a decade since my sister and I could stand each other.

Things are the way they are between us for a lot of reasons. 

My father was a terrific father to small children, but when his children started forming their own opinions and disagreeing with him, even rebelling (very mildly in my case; rather extremely in hers), he couldn’t take it.  He was an angry control freak, and he did not respect us as people.  It feels very sordid to put this in writing.  You have to understand, I love my father and he and I get along reasonably well now – now that I am 27, have two college degrees and am about 2/3 of the way to a third, and have not lived in his house for most of the last decade.  It has taken a lot of work and fighting to get to this point, and I sincerely believe it would not have been possible if I had not moved out as young as I did.  Three years ago, he and I had a serious fight in which I told him that if a man I was dating treated me the way he treats me, I would call it abuse and tell him not to let the door hit his ass on the way out.

My sister has not been so lucky.  Her bipolar may be worse than mine; it is without a doubt more poorly managed.  She has anxiety issues and may also have borderline personality disorder – she has been diagnosed with it by one psych, and I personally believe it accurately describes her.  She also has an eating disorder that flares on and off.  She barely finished high school and spent the year and a half after high school utterly fucked up on drugs, alcohol, and mutually abusive relationships.  She enrolled and failed to finish multiple semesters at the community college, which only added to my father’s lack of respect for her.  I have always been the practical one, the one whose expectations are at least more-or-less based on reality.  My sister has not had long periods of not living with my parents.  She had an apartment for a while, but it was only a few miles away and she came over weekly to do her laundry (or to be more precise, to have my mother do her laundry).  A little over 3 years ago, she got pregnant and decided to keep the baby.  She didn’t bond with my nephew when he was born, though in the last year she has become much more involved.  However, she really isn’t capable of being a single parent, so she is effectively trapped in my parents’ house because she needs the help.  She told me years ago that she resented me for leaving when I did, abandoning her with our father; it certainly explains a lot of her behavior towards me.

I say all this not to exonerate her, but to explain the situation I find myself in.

You see, my mother’s life largely revolves around trying to keep my sister from harming herself.  My father and my sister have terrible fights, like he and I had for years before I left for college.  My sister’s mental health has been poorly managed since she developed bipolarism, we think at around age 12, the same age as me.  She has only had one good therapy relationship, and has disliked the way she feels on medication strongly enough to mostly be off of them.  She swings suicidal unpredictably.

My mother is the only buffer between my father and my sister.  They are dysfunctional in ways that are directly at odds with each other, and there is a constant tension and anger in this house.  She also gets dragged into fights between my sister and I, usually because my sister tells her how angry she is over something I said or did.

My parents don’t really understand how severe my bipolar is, for a lot of reasons.  I’m a more private person than my sister – it may seem hard to believe, since you read this blog and I write all kinds of deeply personal things here, but I haven’t ever been very open about my emotional state with my parents.  As messed up as my relationship with them has been at times, I have always wanted to be someone they would be proud of.  I live farther away, and have for a long time, so they don’t see the days I don’t manage to get out of bed or the projects that don’t get finished or the crying jags or the times I get suicidal.  I’m far more self-reliant than my sister is, and I make shit work until I can’t.  I also have a better network of friends, who I rely on in times of need instead of asking for help from my family; her friends have historically been users.  My bipolar looks different than hers – hers is more obvious, violent lunges in one direction or the other, where mine sneaks up on me until the whole world is gray or so bright I can hardly bear it.

I’m writing about this because I made my mother cry today.

My sister and I clashed pretty badly last night, and I told my mother about it today because for once, I didn’t want to be the bad guy.  I’m always the bad guy.  I’m always supposed to be on eggshells around my sister, and if she gets hurt or angry about something I said, it’s my fault.  And even though, for once, I was the one who talked to our mother first, I was the bad guy again.  Even though my sister presented some pretty damn fucked up opinions, which included an opinion that (among others) people with disabilities (later refined to ‘people who don’t contribute’) should be killed to ease world overpopulation, it was my fault that we clashed because I told her that what she was saying was fucked up and I insisted in a slightly later part of the discussion that science has not proven causation between weight and the amount/quality of food a person ingests.*  And furthermore, that dieting is more dangerous to a person’s health than being overweight.

Why is it my fault?  Because I’m supposed to be less fucked up and therefore more is expected of me.

Perhaps the most fucked up part of this is that more being expected of me is what led me to attempt to kill myself when I was 15.  I couldn’t bear the fact that I was constantly disappointing people, failing to meet expectations, and I really believed that people would be happier without me.  Then, it was more expected of me academically, because I was so damn gifted.  Since then, it’s become more expected of me in terms of work and relationships because supposedly I’m less fucked up emotionally.  Because yeah, putting that weight on me again is going to be a healthy thing.

*No, this is not an invitation to debate this point.  There are studies, which I am not in the mood to dig up right now, that point this out.

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