Quelle est ma plus grande peur?

J’ai peur de manquer d’argent. Quand j’ai reçu ma paie, coupée de 500$, j’ai refait mon budget tout de suite, j’ai pensé à ça pour un bout, je me suis inquiétée…

Même quand j’ai assez d’argent, je m’inquiète. Pourtant, j’ai réussi à vivre toute seule avec un seul salaire pendant des années. Et ce n’était pas un gros salaire.

Quand je capote pour l’argent, il faut que je me raisonne :

  1. J’ai deux CELI et un REER.
  2. J’ai de l’argent de côté dans mon compte d’épargne aussi.
  3. Je vis avec quelqu’un qui partage les dépenses.
  4. Je peux réduire mes contributions à mon REER et mes CELI. Je mets présentement 300$ de côté par mois.
  5. Ma carte VISA est payée tous les mois.
  6. Je n’ai pas de dettes, elles sont toutes payées.
  7. Je vais être correcte aux impôts, j’en paie plus que je suis supposée à chaque paie, je fais des dons de charité et j’ai des gros frais dentaires et de docteurs. Et j’ai eu des frais scolaires cette année.
  8. Je n’ai pas de linge à m’acheter pour le moment.
  9. Pas de voiture, de dépendances coûteuses (cigarettes, alcool, drogues, jeu).
  10. On ne paie pas cher d’Hydro et ce qu’on paie en Vidéotron est raisonnable pour tout ce qu’on télécharge.
  11. J’ai en masse de bouffe dans les armoires.

Ça va aller !

Cette peur-là, me force à me calmer et à mieux planifier.

Positive thinking Monday

  1. I am alive to blog and tweet.
  2. This is a new year fresh with no mistakes.
  3. I still have a few days before going back to work.
  4. No comments on NOT having kids YET at my in-laws.
  5. I bought massages and manicures and pedicures to use in the coming months. Looking forward to that. 🙂
  6. I slept 12 hours in the night from Saturday to Sunday.
  7. New schedule at the Y starts today.
  8. I found the fat loss special and bought it before the date announced on Oxygen’s web site.
  9. My sister-in-law infused me with new fears about Harper’s politics. No more head in the sand. I already vote but I will follow politics so I can vote against him for a party that will be able to enter. No more green party.
  10. These holidays were a tiny bit more relaxed than usual and I have not been sick.
  11. I just bought 5zumba  classes! I haven’t done zumba in a few months. The Y has not offered classes on a schedule practical to me or with a trainer I like. So I bought 5 classes at Bamboo Fit and am planning to go at Guy-Favreau as well. More cardio, please !

Un bébé, ça n’efface pas l’histoire familiale

Je viens de visiter un blog qui me rend triste et enragée à la fois.

Je ne comprends pas ce qui fait que des familles où tout va bien se séparent. Pourquoi les enfants partent et ne reviennent plus puis empêchent les grands-parents de voir leurs petits-enfants. Si tout va bien, pourquoi ça arriverait ?

Peut-être que les parents n’ont pas offert de support à leur enfant en crise et l’enfant n’a pas pardonné. Peut-être que les parents ont perdu la confiance de leur enfant. Peut-être que, comme chez nous, les parents sont indignes de confiance.

Je trouve ça bien triste s’il n’y a pas de raison apparente à la séparation. Si c’est l’enfant qui a vécu quelque chose de difficile, s’est senti jugé, non appuyé, mais qu’il n’en a pas parlé et que ses parents ne savent même pas ce qu’ils ont fait de mal, c’est poche en maudit. Devenir adulte c’est aussi parler de ce qui se passe. Dialoguer.

Mais, tsé, dans les familles où les parents ont blâmé l’enfant pour un inceste…où les parents ont battu l’enfant…où les parents n’ont jamais été présents…je comprends que l’enfant ne veuille pas mettre son bébé en présence des grands-parents. Ça m’enrage que les gens pensent que c’est un dû.

Mes parents sont alcooliques. Le chum de ma mère est un gars responsable à qui on peut faire confiance, mais c’est aussi un facilitateur qui donne du vin à ma mère. Bon, c’est leur histoire, leur dynamique. Par contre, où ça bloque c’est dans mon histoire avec des adultes qui ont vraiment foiré. Come on. Pourquoi je serais heureuse d’amener un bébé à du monde de même ?! J’ai dit à Ma Soeur qu’elle devait faire attention à ce qu’elle allait donner comme exemple plutôt que s’inquiéter de ma mère. Je sais que ma mère trippe sur le bébé. Elle ne ferait rien intentionnellement pour que ça tourne mal. Mais, quand elle boit, elle change. Elle devient harcelante, gossante, difficile. Mon père biologique devient violent. Ils sont imprévisibles malgré la prédictabilité de leur comportement.

J’ai pas envie que mes enfants se fassent gosser, entre autres, parce qu’ils ne veulent pas boire une bière à 11h, un dimanche matin, à 16 ans. Ou sur leurs seins qui poussent à l’adolescence. Je n’ai pas envie qu’ils se fassent pogner le cul en « signe d’affection ». Pas envie qu’ils aient à dire « non, je vais marcher » à un membre de famille qui a bu et qui veut aller le reconduire quelque part. Et qui insiste et insiste encore. Pas envie qu’ils aient à reconduire un membre de famille chez lui…sans permis de conduire. Pas envie qu’ils se retrouvent seuls sans personne pour veiller sur eux pendant que les adultes vont faire une sieste qui dure des heures. Pas envie qu’ils se fassent crier après, se fassent taper ou secouer.

Ma mère, je sais que ça va aller. Elle est prévenue par contre. Mon père biologique, c’est une autre paire de manches. Non, je n’amènerai pas mes enfants chez lui. Pour les présenter peut-être. Mais je ne les laisserai pas avec lui.

On ne « doit » rien à nos parents quand il s’agit de protéger nos enfants des blessures qu’on a soi-même vécues dans notre histoire avec eux.

Hypersensible, le pôv monsieur

1er novembre 2005

Je viens de passer deux heures au téléphone avec J-F. La conversation s’est mieux déroulée que les précédentes. Il est clair qu’il a de la misère à « dealer » avec ce que je lui ai raconté sur mon passé.

Je regrette de le lui avoir raconté. En même temps, ça me fait voir des choses de lui. Hypersensible, il se sent visé par tout. Et là, il pense que je vais le laisser s’il fait ou dit quelque chose qui me rappelle ce que j’ai vécu.

Le Voisin d’en bas

She moved in with some roommates in a very big apartment. Proud about being on her own. Thinking about putting things in their places, about getting along with her new rommies.

Then he was there, the Downstairs Neighbour. Smoking pot with one of the roommies. She didn’t care, really, as long as noone bothered her. But he did by sitting in her room on an empty milk crate that she needed to make a bookcase. He was interested in her he said.

He made her nervous but she didn’t know why. She kept herself far from him. She told him that she was with someone. And she was. She thought. They had slept together which meant something to her and he said he would call her back which she believed. Even though she had no news after two weeks, she truly believed they were together.

So she pushed the Downstairs Neighbour away. Then the one she trusted enough to sleep with finally came to the phone one night and told her he was moving in with his ex, no they weren’t coming back together but they would live together. No he and her weren’t together and they would not see each other anymore.

She was devastated. She cried and she was so hurt, her heart felt ripped apart. That weekend she barely ate and barely slept listening to the Cranberries non stop. Once again the Downstairs Neighbour came up to smoke weed and while he was there he drifted in her room. He asked her out again and she said no and no and no inventing excuses until she had no more. She just didn’t care. No one loved her anyway so since he said they wouldn’t go very far she agreed.

Being outside hurt her. How could people still live their lives ? They walked a bit to a bar not far from their triplex. She said she didn’t drink beer or wine or anything with alcohol. In fact, she wasn’t thirsty, she wanted to go back home.

He insisted she drank only a bit of beer. He went to the bar and came back with a beer and a glass into which he had already poured some beer. She wanted to go back home and she hated the taste of beer. She wished he would bring her back. It was dark. She suddenly felt fuzzy.

She doesn’t remember walking or floating or swimming back to her room. But there they were together in her bed while she was thinking that she didn’t want to do this. This isn’t what she wanted, she wanted none of this. She had said no, she wasn’t interested.  Didn’t she ? How had they gotten out of their clothes ?

She was doing things she didn’t even know she could do and she didn’t feel a thing, everything was blurry. He wasn’t kissing her, was telling her what to do and like a puppet afraid of having her cords cut she obeyed.

When it was over he slept while she lay there open-eyed zombie-like. The Cranberries were playing in the background while tears rolled down her cheeks. He must have woken up and left but she wasn’t « there ».

For weeks or months he came back to do what he wanted. At this point she was broken. She didn’t see the point of saying no since he had already gotten his way that first time.

He never kissed her, never said anything flattering, talked about his girlfriend in Quebec and his son that he had by accident. She cried while he slept listening to the same tape over and over wishing she was dead. She was too afraid to say anything and was ashamed.

She wanted to die and got used to crossing the street without looking, watching the subway coming through and almost jumping, or calculating heights and velocity.

One day, she met someone who took interest. And she knew that she wasn’t worthy. Things had to change. She didn’t know how and she was really afraid of being hurt. She asked him to stay awake. If she screamed he would have to come in her room without knocking. If everything was okay she would see him next morning or a couple of days after.

She hoped the Downstairs Neighbour wouldn’t come. He always found a way to come in. If at first he just came in by the front door left unlocked because there was always someone home, since the roommates started locking it (even if it meant less business for her drug dealer roomie) he came in by the indoor stairs that connected the two apartments. One of the roomie had tried locking it but the Downstair Neighbour had threatened to climb her balcony.

He just appeared in her room at night. She would be asleep and he would be there already undressing or sitting on her bed.

But he showed up that night and she found in her new love interest the courage to whisper « no ». When he asked what she had said she just repeated the word. Inside her everything was so tense. Her throat was parched, her palms were sweating, her heart was beating like a drum and was so loud she hardly heard what he was saying.

He was standing there, hesitating, he had already started to undress. He took his things and went and never came bac to her surprise and relief.

Next morning she said thanks to the guy that gave her courage to stand up for herself for the first time in a very long time. When he asked why she was saying thank you she just said that him being there had made a big difference the night before.

She would still very sensitive to noises outside her door for many years and would be very nervous about moving in alone. Letting doors open, especially balcony doors, would get a lot of getting used to and no kissing would become a red flag.

Être capable de dire "Non"

8 novembre 2007

Hm. No one has ever said I could say it and I had every reason to say it. No one has ever said I had to defend myself and I could.

Saying no is difficult, I feel guilty and I’m always afraid that I might be at the receiving end of an extended arm going very fast. Why ? I don’t know. maybe because it happened often enough home when I was little. Just because. Not because I said no, I hardly said anything.

My parents always said I had to be careful with strangers. But no one ever told me that I had to be careful with people I know. My parents never told me. Maybe because they would have been the first I would have looked at as « a bad person ». I did go to the school counselor when I was in junior high but even if I had a lot to tell, I just couldn’t talk. No words came out after « I want to change houses ». I just couldn’t talk.

I often feel the same way again. I can’t talk. I can’t cry. When I talk too much it’s because I hope what I say will fall in someone’s ear, any ear just as long as my words find someone who will truly listen to me. Not like my family.

Saying no requires being angry. And being angry isn’t well seen for a woman. A woman can’t be angry in public or even in private. It isn’t polite or lady-like. I have a lot of difficulty with my anger. I stifle it until it explodes and it usually is too late. I am trying, I’m better at feeling it. Last year I didn’t feel a thing, ever. Not a feeling, ever. Everything was buried deep.

Now I do feel anger. I can say no. But I feel like a bad person. I don’t want to reject someone, hurt the person. But I have to don’t I ? I can’t just do everything people want me to do. I can’t be what people want me to be.

Being myself is saying no. Being myself is difficult and it makes me feel guilty, angry and afraid.

Cauchemar

15 mars 2008

Since I talked about my parent’s divorce I had less nightmares but they seem to come back. They are not about divorce or separation however.

In the night from saturday to sunday I had a very frightening dream. I woke up and first thing I did was write it down in my notebook that I have been keeping on my bed for a couple of weeks. From my bed I can see the door to the balcony, the door to the living room, a bit of a book shelf, my desk, a lamp. My mind kenw what the objects were but the obscurity was full of menace. I was afraid to look through the window in case someone was there and I felt like someone was in my apartment.

My chest was squeezing from fright. I felt confused, part of me still in my dream. I forced myself to get up. The snow on the balcony was pristine like always. A neighbour was coming back – from a night out ? It was 3:30 – and was busy parking her car.

As I walked carefully, my heart pounding furiously, I lit every room of the apartment, very afraid of finding someone there even though I knew it was not possible. I was cold, my pyjama was damp with sweat. When I arrived to the kitchen, I lit up. I forced myself to cross the floor to the door. I checked the locks – a move I have been doing almost every night for the last months but that I do every night during summer – and I forced myself to look through the window. I was fearing that a creature would jump and destroy the door and me at the same time like in a Twilight Zone episode.

My heart hurt from anxiety. But everything was normal, silent. A few neighbours had left their porch lights on, there was no movement. I went to the bathroom. I changed my pyjama – they are showing signs of wear from being washed so much – and went back to bed, turning the lights off everywhere.

I left my bedside lamp on for most of the night, its bluish light reassuring. I tried to relax as I petted my cat. I felt lucky to have him to distract me as I tried going back to sleep.