My Kitchen Is A Place Of Sadness


First of all I want to apologize to those you whose blogs I follow. I have been very remiss in keeping up though I’m making an effort to read and catch up. I can honestly say: it’s not you, it’s me. I’m in a weird head space at the moment and it’s making me weird too.

I think I’m rapid-cycling, bipolar-wise but I didn’t really catch it until recently. My husband has noticed that I’m acting oddly as well and he’s often right so I try to pay attention to his observations as well. I’ve been going from depressed or numb to high and then back down or flat again which is usually bipolar rapid-cycling. I’m also still in a state of disconnected grief that keeps surprising me at odd moments by punching me in the stomach or squeezing my throat.

I got up one night after being swamped with feelings of worthlessness and memories of my grandmother and laid down on my bathroom floor crying. I kept having an urge to bake the cookies my grandmother used to make when I was younger so I did. I’ve never felt like baking cookies might kill me until the day I baked these. They’re not chocolate chip cookies or oatmeal cookies but you may have a version of them in your family as well. You make the cookie dough and add nuts (pecans in my family) and you make them into balls and after you bake them, while they’re still warm, you roll them in powdered sugar then you let them cool all the way and roll them in powdered sugar again. My grandmother made those when I was a kid and I loved them.

The urge to make them wouldn’t leave until I did it and it was like baking with a ghost in my kitchen. The ghost was grief wrapped up in the visage of my grandmother and tinged with images of my abusive uncle.

For some reason my uncle is directly connected to my memories of my grandmother now. Her house holds him there and where she is so is he, even though he wasn’t her son but her sister’s son (in case you’ve forgotten, in the area I’m from you call a much older cousin Uncle or Aunt and they are treated as such and my uncle was at least 30 years older than me). Maybe it’s because the one location that I can place him at is my grandmother’s house when he kissed me on my underwear.

Either way, my kitchen has become a sad place. One of them things I loved about my seeing my grandmother when I visited her was her cooking. She would cook all day and into the night to make sure we had hot food to eat when we arrived in town and there was nothing more wonderful than the smell of her kitchen after being forced to live with my mother and stepfather for the rest of the year. She was the one person on this earth that I knew had my back and loved me unconditionally. When I was at her house things were different for a short time until I had to return to my mother.

While I mixed the ingredients to make the dough I could see my grandmother in my head but the memory was painful and full of loss. There was no comfort there. As I rolled the dough into balls, she was there and the grief tightened my stomach and made my throat hurt. when I pulled them out the oven she was there and she was still dead. She was dead when I rolled them in powdered sugar and when I tasted them and they were exactly like hers, the taste was perfect and horrible all at once.

Something is definitely off with me. Sometimes I can be okay and sometimes I can’t feel anything. Sometimes I’m sad and sometimes I’m suddenly energetic and talkative. I’m finding this mixture of rapid-cycling mingled with PTSD and whatever else it is to be difficult to manage. My moods change so quickly that it’s difficult to be around other people, even my husband.

That’s all I have to say for now. I just wanted to say something…anything.

Advertisements

About CimmarianInk

Abuse Survivor Diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder PTSD and Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) also known as Multiple Personalities
This entry was posted in bipolar disorder, Child Molestation, depression, DID, dissociative identity disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Sexual Abuse, Trauma and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

9 Responses to My Kitchen Is A Place Of Sadness

  1. matmataw says:

    Depression doesn’t persist because of its advantages, but more because of its cause which is deep sadness, but still that doesn’t forbid us to look at depression in a more positive way.

  2. Freasha1964 says:

    Sorry this is so hard now. What a bummer that these special treasures for you bring the taste of your uncle along, too. I hope that you can distill him out of the next batch, and remember your dear grandma alone.
    Then, of course, there is that metaphor I read in a stupid book that some of the memories that haunt us are monsters, also on the bus as we ride along wishing they would get off and leave us alone. But they are there, and we have to accept it -and maybe the part of the metaphor I forgot for some reason: welcome them. That sounds easy, doesn’t it?
    It is good to hear from you, even though you are struggling so much. Keep us posted.

  3. kat says:

    im so sorry for your loss, my dad was the only person ever to have my back, and i miss him terribly now that he is gone. as painful as the cookie making ritual was, it was probably also cathartic, allowing you to feel the memories, live them again, and know that in a way she is still there with all that you do. don’t be too hard on yourself right now, let the wounds flow and then heal.

  4. CI, Beautifully written post. I’m sorry you’re experiencing difficult times. It’s even worse when the feelings we feel seem a bit off. It’s bad enough what we deal with from day to day, but then when something feels unusual or odd, it’s very unsettling.

    Aside from the rapid cycling and PTSD, do you think there’s something your grandmother is trying to tell you? Of, if not your grandmother’s spirit, then perhaps some lesson she taught you in the past or something she shared with you that some part of you needs to hear again?

    It sounds like your grandmother was a source of great comfort. But, it doesn’t sound like you were feeling comforted while baking the cookies. Was there something else you identify strongly as coming from your grandmother? Some bit of advice or a characteristic or personality trait of hers that might serve you well now in your life?

    Or maybe you’re needing to reconnect with that comfort your grandmother used to provide.

    I’m really sorry those memories of your uncle get thrown into the mix with those of your grandmother. That’s so sad. You deserve your happy comforting memories with your grandmother!

    Take care,
    rl

    • CimmarianInk says:

      Hi rl,

      I’m not sure what the images of her in my mind mean. My therapist had some suggestions but I’m not sure that they rang true for me. At the moment it is too painful
      to even think of my grandmother. My mind shies away from it and the second I think of her my eyes feel funny so I just can’t dig into yet.

      But, I want to thank you for replying so kindly. I’m really grateful and maybe in a while I’ll be able to examine this and figure out the purpose, if there is one.

      (hugs)

  5. ~meredith says:

    Hi. I don’t know if my experience is similar, but at some point in my journey I realized I did not really have a “secret,” and that my grandma did know… and that just killed me. Still does. I can hardly write this.

    Sometimes, it takes a lot of background fiddling to assimilate awareness. I remember your post about being in the kitchen with your family gathered. You wrote that she (your grandmother) openly asked you about your uncle… and what you’d told her just moments before. She knew. You told her.

    My family- at-large knew, too. I don’t know… every time I wanted to rub out the awareness when it surfaced it just got clearer, and I felt more devastated than when I still believed no one knew. I spiraled every time, unable to understand the ‘why’ of it. Over time, I stopped wondering as I saw how adults have secrets and shame they just can’t/ don’t/ won’t deal with, and that I grew up during an era when society, as a whole, turned their backs to the reality of CSA. It wasn’t right, but it was reality.

    I grieve for you, whatever the source of this pain might be. It’s taken me forever to say what I’ve said, but the truth of the matter is that we wake up to many realizations about the circumstances surrounding our abuse… and it’s devastating every time, because it’s so hard to recognize the failings of people we remember as beloved, good, righteous, etc.

    You are your salvation, lonely as that may sound. You are not alone, though, and people are listening with eyes and ears open, caring deeply for you. That’s why NOW is important. Once, you weren’t heard or responded to in right ways. Now is your time, and speaking your truth as you know it matters as much as ever, so work it and know nothing has been lost. This blog, these writings are your victory over confusion and despair. They are ours, your readers, as well. Validation is the greatest healing balm I can think of. Rest in it and let it affirm this journey.

    With love,
    Meredith

    • CimmarianInk says:

      Hi meredith,

      This a really lovely response. You said some of the things my therapist thought but it made more sense the way you put it.
      It can be difficult to reconcile that the adults you looked up to, didn’t handle sexual abuse properly. They were flawed.

      My therapist said that because I lost my grandmother in the way that I did, it made it easier to put her on a pedestal and that is what I did but I feel like she deserves to be there for all of the good things she did. Still, it doesn’t erase what happened and how it was handled.

      I’m sorry the adults in your life didn’t protect you and fight for you.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s