“It’s Just a Panic Attack”

I’m trying to remember when this occurred. I think it was as my partner was miraculously healed from his organ failure (see previous post), but not long after. At this point, I was aware of 4 of his family members being involved. One was about to leave but I didn’t know when. I thought he was still there.

I was getting pretty wound up. First, partner is dying, then he’s not. Keeping the house clean – BIL#1 was clueless, from how to sweep the floor to how to tear off a bag from the roll. He didn’t know how to call for an emergency. This became an issue.

I was having trouble breathing. Sweeping, pulling up heavy, full, bin bags, throwing out the detritus that collects if you don’t throw it away. Bending over is always a problem. I had to do it, over and over, and along with a dusty house, and the emotional stress, triggered a good sized asthma attack. I got panicky. I called my partner and asked for someone to come stay with me. Just in case it went south.

I thought two people were with him but it turned out, it was just BIL#1. BIL#1 arrives in the house about 10-15 minutes later. He didn’t know how to call emergency. I explained how it worked. He said okay and went to get a snack.

Now, I’d been sitting very still for at least 15-20 minutes. I was breathing ‘normally’. But if I’d tried to get up, it would have instantly been where it was when I called.

BIL#1 didn’t ask me if I needed or wanted anything. Water? Tea? Medication? Food? Nope to all. He did get his snack though. He comes back, says ‘It’s just a panic attack. I’m going back to your partner’, in a dismissive tone and leaves.

I was in shock. Pretty sure my mouth hung open. ‘Just a panic attack’ floored me. I know people who have panic attacks and it sure and hell isn’t something imaginary. It was insulting to the people who suffer from this, and hella insulting to me, as it’s something imaginary, just out for attention.

And second, he left me. He. Left. Me. Even now, weeks later, I’m shocked. If I had tried to get up, say to go to the toilet, I could have passed out, it was that bad. Just thinking of this day is tensing me up. Dismissive, ignorant and insulting, all in one easy sentence.

It took me 1 1/2 hours before I was able to get up and get a cup of tea.

I learned a lot about my BIL in that moment.

Catch up

I keep thinking, Oh, I’ll remember that! I’ll post in a couple of days.

Of course, I don’t remember.

I was in the hospital in august. Got out the 10th. I was triggered by the filthy house. Couldn’t breathe. They kept sending me home, and I’d be back in a couple of hours. The hospital system is so overwhelmed they do everything to keep from admitting people. When I was admitted, and then released days later, I was feeling pretty good.

The partner had to clean the house. Like, really clean it. Within a couple of days, he was sick. I was expecting this. He is the only person allowed to be sick in this household. If I’m sick, he’s sick in a couple of days, and it’s worse.

He went to bed. Whined continuously. Took little baby steps to get to the bathroom. Really milked it. I helped him, made sure he had food and water (something he doesn’t do for me) made sure he took his meds, etc. But honestly, I thought he was faking. Then he developed a fever. He wasn’t faking.

I kept trying to get him to call for an ambulance. He kept refusing. Until he couldn’t move, at all. Couldn’t get out of bed for the toilet and you can guess where that went. He didn’t tell me, but I found out when taking his temperature, he’d spiked up to 104f/40c. If I’d known, I would have called for an ambulance if he liked it or not. Finally, he admitted defeat and called for an ambulance. His fever was no longer too high, it was only 102f/38.8c. The ambulance service told him it wasn’t life-threatening and refused to pick him up.

So we called a secondary service – for non-life-threatening medical issues. They took him to the hospital for …what was the term? Public service or some such. Word got out quick and his family started showing up to take care of him. Which was good, he literally couldn’t raise his hand to drink and the nursing staff was so short staffed, they couldn’t care for him.

In short order, the oldest brother showed up. After a couple of days, he comes home from the hospital and says: he’s had a stroke and multiple organ failure. He has hours to days to live.

This was a lie.

It was gaslighting.

A couple of days later when I enquired about his organ failure, he says, quote. Orgain failure? He’s never had organ failure. I asked about his stroke, and my BIL waves his hand, It might have been a stroke, but MRI is indeterminate.

He gas lit me. For funzies. See, I can’t leave the house. I equate leaving the house with death. So I weigh each thing – is it worth dying for? Well, when I thought my partner was on his death bed, I said yes, it’s worth going out for. BIL says, but I thought you couldn’t leave the house? (but his tone was AHHA! I knew you could, you’re just faking it. Wanting attention.)

Ever since then, he has literally ignored me. He does not respond when I make a comment. He looks either through me or not at me at all. I’m not invisible. I do not exist.

There are many things I can bring up about my BIL, and I will. I don’t know all the ends and outs of what abusive behavior is, but I figure one or two things he’s doing would qualify.

I will be going into that in the next post. Hopefully soon. I have no one to talk to, so this is it. No one to talk to here, either, but better than just sobbing all day. I’m tired of crying.

I’m so sorry

I’ve been gone for so long. Yikes, over a year! I’m alive, which is saying something in these times.

I’ve been meaning to post for months but keep getting interrupted. And I think, ‘oh, I’ll remember that, it was pretty nasty, it can wait‘. But I don’t remember it. Them, rather.

I need a place to vent and this is the only place I have, where I am not known or where I don’t have to be a Smiling Sally. I can be mad here. Snarky. Sad. So, very, very sad.

Things to say, so there might be a blitz of posts. I will do my best not to disappear again.

If there’s anyone still here, thanks for sticking around.

I Think He’s A Sociopath.

I’ve made a mistake.

Partner comes in, slumps down on the bed, hangs his head and claps his hands, and says sadly; I am a bad man.

I wanted to say; you aren’t a bad man. You are an evil man.

However, self preservation kicked in and I didn’t say that. I said nothing. And that was my mistake. I did, at least, look at him as if expecting him to say more on it. He peeked up at me, to see how I was reacting – and I realize now, to see if I was buying it.

I should have said: You are not a bad man. Then shut the hell up. That’s how he lies, or one of the ways, by not saying the whole truth.

So a couple of days later, we had that little comedy that I posted a couple of days ago, with his doctor friend. Next time, I’ll say what’s needed for self preservation. You aren’t a bad man, dear. Of course not. He’ll buy it, I think, because it’s what he wants or expects to hear.

I wondered – would it help if I told him I thought he was a sociopath? I did a bit of research on it (I am not a psychiatrist, but I wanted some kind of feed back on the question). Landed on a page with questions answered by sociopaths, and lets just say it was eye opening.

I came away with several thoughts on it, but here are a couple of them. 1) Deaf and blind people don’t consider themselves ‘broken’. They’re just different. Sociopath’s don’t think of themselves as broken, either. They use their ‘skills’ just like anyone else does. Those skills utilize their lack of emotions or guilt and a driving desire to achieve [insert anything]. 2) Every last one of them said if someone told them they were a sociopath (A. They know that, doh) they would consider said person of no use to them, and ‘fuck them up’. Every last one of them said that. Some went a bit further and said … well, paraphrase, they would ghost them or ghost them. (fade away or kill them). Now, even with the grandosius mindset of them all thinking they would ‘fuck you up’, it still boiled down to making your life a living hell.

So, people, if you think telling a sociopath that you are on to them is a good idea, DON’T. It’s not.

Hence my new goals of self preservation.

I spoke with a real doctor about my (maybe) coronavirus symptoms and she confirmed, Yes, I had coronavirus. Gave me some suggestions, reassured me that my fever lasting a month, where not normal, was a known symptom for some people. That’s all I needed to hear, really. Okay. I had it. I survived, didn’t need to go to hospital. Mental releaf. My partner went out of his way to fuck me up and for a few days it worked, until I was able to talk to a medical professional. When I told him what she said, his face was blank. Like that whole comedy a couple of days ago never happened. I got mad.

Then I got sad.

I got really sad. Started crying. I’m not a cryer. I’ve cried 3 times in the last 20 years. I feel broken if I cry. It takes a LOT to get me to cry. I cried on and off for 2 days. I don’t feel better. I feel fragile.

Now I’m scared.

They got my hopes up, damn it. Now I’m actually scared. I had managed to get into a comfort zone, ignoring things or just getting on with it. Now I have a dangling hope of escape and it’s scaring the hell out of me.

I’ve been having some tests done on my memory. Not sure if I’ve mentioned my short term memory loss. I can’t hang on to a thought longer than a few seconds. Or as the old expression goes, in one ear and out the other.

About four years ago, I’d been tested for dementia. It was past due for a re-test. My memory is even worse. But they’ve been talking a lot about other things. Lots of side glances and knowing nods. Asking if I want to talk to people and being very willing to make sure it’s ‘on the sly’, or at least, so it’s stuck in with their normal scheduling. Talking about getting me my own income support, about women’s shelters, about emotional help. I didn’t even tell them about the murder attempts. Or maybe I did, using other phrases or word clues that they recognized, that I didn’t know I was giving.

They wanted to know, if I tested positive for dementia, what I wanted to be done. Would my partner care for me? Lots of other pointed questions.

A few years ago, I was free. But the government switched their position and so it was, it was the street or back in with my partner. I chose my partner. But if I ever leave again, there will be no going back. And the government has screwed me once. They can do it again. And I’ll have no backup, no net, no hope. I’ll be totally screwed.

The last (and only) time I tried calling a helpline, I hung up before they answered. My hands shook for hours after.

They’re going to have to do some almighty talking to make me think it can be a permanent freedom. If there’s a remote chance it can go sour I won’t even start it. I can’t take that kind of fear.

I’m too tired for this shit.

The other day, I asked my partner where the large ace bandages were. I’d done something to my knee while sleeping, suspect I’d laid on it in such a way the joint slid sideways slightly. It hurt like hades and was difficult to walk on. Now, I didn’t tell him why I wanted the bandage or what I think I’d done. I just asked him where the bandages were.

Two days later, he had a ‘broken rib’.

He can’t tolerate it when it isn’t him that is the sickest. Broken bones are the unprovable go-to for being suddenly, without reason, sick. His bones have been brittle in the past, but he’s been on the ‘normal’ scale for some years. Yet he can break bones by – breathing. Sitting. Laying down. When he has a broken rib, he finds it difficult to walk. Tells me constantly he’s an old man, now. He grunts with each step. Moans picking up a cup. Takes baby steps. The problem with all this – he only does it when he thinks I can see or hear him. He takes tiny steps until he can’t see me. Then he walks normally. It’s so incredibly childish. I tell him to go to the hospital. He says there’s nothing they can do for him. I think there’s only so much faking you can do and you can’t fake an x-ray.

This is only one example. It happens every single time.

And I’ve recently had a couple of things happen that have kind of freaked me out. He knows about one of them but not the other.

I was cooking some chicken legs. Put them in the oven, set the temp and the timer, gave them 30 minutes. The timer goes off, I check on them, and decide they need another 15 minutes. I could not, for the life of me, set the timer. I’d push the little clock icon and it kept telling me 17 hours – I couldn’t get it to change! (it was 5pm.) After messing with it for a few minutes I finally went to ask him for help. About 2 inches to the right of the clock icon is a dial, that you turn, to set the timer. Remember, I’d just set it 30 minutes previous! The second he turned it, I remembered, yeah, that’s how you do it. But when I was trying to do it…my vision kind of ended on the clock icon. I didn’t even see the dial just to the right. It wasn’t there. I didn’t think there was something there. It was just …blank. This hasn’t happened again since then, but that scared the crap out of me.

Then a few days later. I feel an abrasion on my finger. Look at it and see this scab like thing. My nose had been running so I thought it was a bit of dried snot I’d not noticed. Tried to wash it off. It didn’t wash off. I look closer. There’s a divot in my finger – a gouge about the size and shape of a long-grain rice, with this tiny, hard scab. It’s deep (rice size), but it’s not red. It’s not sore. No blistering. Just a gouge with a tiny scab. I have no memory at all of hurting myself. I have no idea how long I’d had it (must have been some time, it was pretty much healed by the time I saw it. Or noticed it, rather.) And that scared the fuck out of me. I didn’t tell him about it. I didn’t want to see what he’d do to himself to top that.

Come to think of it, I think he did top it. Maybe a week later we were expecting an amazon delivery and his medication. The door buzzes, he goes to answer it. He thanks the amazon guy, sets the box next to the door and goes into the kitchen. I ask what the delivery is. He bitches that the medical people only delivered one box. I’m looking at the amazon box. I tell him its an amazon box. He says his dry goods delivery got shorted, he’s only got one box. He has gotten very forgetful lately. But that kind of confusion, I don’t know. I do know it happened after the oven incident.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. The problem with dealing with a known lier is you can’t tell when they’re telling the truth. And I’m sounding paranoid. One of the tells for getting gaslighted is you start thinking you’re crazy.

Or, as one of my ‘friends’ once said, maybe you are crazy.

I did have an appointment to have an MRI, before an as yet unset appointment with the memory people. I had a massive asthma attack and had to cancel the MRI. I asked him to call the memory people to see if I could still be seen without it. The front desk woman wanted to ‘reschedule’ the (as yet unset) appointment for six months. Partner said that the decision was above her pay grade and to have the doctor call. The doctor has not called. He has not followed up on it. They already ‘lost’ me once, missing two years of follow-ups. I guess I’m going to get lost again. I could call, myself, of course. But for two things. I’ve developed some weird-ass phone phobia. And I have a real hard time with accents, I have to watch people’s lips.

One of the reasons I put these two incidences on this post was to help me remember them when I ever get to see the memory clinic again. It may not matter.

I’m tired. Not necessarily physically tired, but emotionally tired. I don’t feel like I have any endurance left. I can’t just keep on fighting it.

I’m also having some language problems and the social problems that come from it. But that is for another post.

I am a meat sack with no value.

Many years ago, I saw a meme/questionnaire or something, that posed this question.

A woman was at a funeral and saw a man she really liked. She wanted to know him better, but he left before she could talk to him. What did she do, to find and meet with him again?
Answer: she killed someone, so he would show up at their funeral.

To a sociopath, people aren’t people, they’re just meat sacks to manipulate into doing what is wanted.

First, Trump tweets something incendiary. Then waits.

Someone with a gun, usually young, white and male, goes out to kill those people that Trump doesn’t like. And, also, maybe these young white men don’t like. He is being patriotic by taking care of a problem Trump has identified.

Next, lots of people are dead, sometimes including the shooter, and a city goes into shock and mourning.

Trump announces he’s going to go visit them, at the place of shooting or survivers in hospitals. Sometimes, they ask that he doesn’t come, but he does anyway.

Protesters are fenced off a long way away.

Trump supporters are found and given the opportunity to meet with the president. They take selfies, lots of smiles, handshakes, and compliments. Media are not allowed in, but there are WH photographers there to catch the heart-melting moments.

This is a pattern that has happened how many times? 4? 6? Enough that I see a very distinct pattern.

Trump knows when he goes to these places of mourning, people will give him an ego boost. Trump’s handlers are making very sure of this, by ensuring the place he is at, brings in the Trump supporters. (Like the last one, with the infant that had been release, being brought back for a photo op. Babys, aww.*) How long have they been doing this?

To me, this is the pattern of a sociopath. In his case, it’s murder-by-proxy, with his twitter posts. Waits for the deaths. Goes to the place of the tragedy. Meets his supporters who shower him with love. He is desperate for the accolades. Repeat.

Trump knows what he’s doing. He knows some ‘crazy/patriot’ will go out and kill a lot of people. He’s not just okay with this, he needs it. He doesn’t see the dead people as people. They are pawns, just as the shooters are, in him getting what he needs. Approval. Love. Accolades. People calling him ‘sir’.

*When I first saw that photograph, of Melania holding the infant and Donald standing next to him, thumbs up and a big smile, my first thought was he’s happy because this infants Mexican parents were dead. I read that the brother of one of the dead parents said they were Trump supporters. So I guess they’re happy their baby got to meet their hero.

What does this have to do with me? It’s background anxiety, ratcheting up more each day. America, a country I love and respect, is going crazy. Russia, blows up a nuclear-powered rocket, echoes of Chernobyl. China is building up to a social cleansing in Hong Kong, reminiscent of Tiananmen Square. Central and South America are in melt down. The United Kingdom is pushing hard for a hard Brexit, cause …oh hell, that’s complicated. Dictators and death are on the rise. There is nothing I can do about it, except go about my daily life and hope I’m not blown out of existence some day. I’m collateral damage. I am a meat sack that has no value.