Alcoholism

My grandmother was an alcoholic.

That sentence might elicit images of tears, tantrums and chaos, but that wasn't the case.

My grandmother was the most important adult in my early childhood. My mother struggled after I was born, and was then in hospital for most of her pregnancy with my sister. My father worked; from what I understand he worked all the hours he could to support his new family. This meant that I spent a lot of my formative years with my grandmother.

Both of my parents will surely have issue with the above, but the fact is that without my maternal grandmother they would have been lost. By lost I mean completely fucked.

I have so many memories with my grandmother that it would take hours to describe them. She was a wonderful human being, who loved my sister and I unconditionally. She had a beautiful garden, full of rose bushes, apple trees and a multitude of berries. I can still picture her stirring a giant pot of fresh raspberries and sugar before transferring it into jam jars. I remember her scolding me for eating all of the ripe gooseberries from the bush, and her threats of stomach ache when I stole fruit from the cooking apple trees.

She collected me from playschool and gave me a 10p bag as I watched Bosco and Mr. Ben, and if I was quiet all the way until tea, there was a glass of cream soda or red lemonade. She waited for us with the lollipop lady and asked about our day; she made me dinner with the butter in a dish straight out of the 20's and tucked me in with an electric blanket. When I was sick, she brought dry toast and 7up and dragged the smaller TV to the bedroom so I could watch cartoons. She let me stay up a little bit later than my sister to watch Prisoner Cell Block H, and then shooed me to bed the second it was over.

My sister likely has a head full of her own happy memories.

But even doting grandmothers have their flaws, although as children they aren't apparent. I don't think children see flaws in those around them, they simply adjust their expectations to match their reality.

My grandmother started to leave the house a lot more in the evenings. My sister probably didn't notice, but our mother worked nights a lot so I was already anxious about being home alone. I felt the need to stay up until I heard the squeak of the gate the signaled her return, until I didn't have to be responsible anymore. I didn't think of it as a problem, minding my sister was my job and I got to watch Unsolved Murders.

She slept in a lot later; there was rarely cereal and milk but we managed; there was more than one near miss with the grill while making toast. After a while there were no Rice Krispies, but we would wake to discover bowls of marshmallows and penney sweets for our breakfast. She tolerated me riffling through the sheds full of old junk, and building forts in the garden. she sent me on pilgrimages to the newsagents to get more cigars, and more importunately, let me spend the change on sweets. She forgot to buy food, but she always brought home a bag of funsize bars. I think we lived on miniature Mars bars and sugar for a large part of our childhood. When one of us caught nits in school, it was my job to administer the treatment and clean the sheets. To this day I have a crippling fear of head lice. When I wasn't tormenting my little sister(sorry Emz), it was my job to make sure she washed, had a clean uniform and that we got to school on time. I had not problem with any of this; it wasn't all of the time and I would have done anything to help my grandmother. She loved me, and I loved her and that feeling of unconditional love was worth a million nights waiting up and doing laundry.

Until the day she used me to try and hide her alcoholism. I have always been a socially awkward person, and the only other 'kids' nearby were two years older, which is significant when you are ten. One summers day I was called into my grandmothers house by my mother. It was in the front room; my grandmother was there, in her chair beside the fire, and she remained silent as my mother demanded to know what I had done with the money. I had no idea what she was talking about so I professed my innocence. I was dismissed, in disgust.

I went outside to the back-garden, where my aunt and uncle were. They ignored me. Then my father arrived; at this point my parents were separated so the fact that my mother called him was significant. He took me to Killiney Hill, a regular walking spot on our weekends together. He sat me down and asked me about the missing money. I had no idea what he was talking about so I professed my innocence. I cried, I begged him to believe me. He told me how disappointed he was, and silently drove me back to my grandmothers. I was branded a thief, looked upon with disgust by the adults in my life and punished.

A few years weeks later(possibly months, childhood timelines are murky), my grandmother was caught trying to double cash a cheque and the extent of her illness was revealed.It turned out the missing cash (approximately €200) had been spent on alcohol, and having no money for her bills she had asked her children for money. When they asked where her alimony had gone she told them that she had cashed the cheque and the money went missing. Then she told them that she had noticed that the kids on the road were being nicer to me, so she suspected I was using the missing money to buy them sweets so they would play with me.

On paper, it's such a little thing. A moment in time that was fleeting and insignificant. But imagine being 10 years old, and finding out that not only did your family believe that you needed to buy friends, but that you were also capable of stealing from your grandmother to fund said transaction. 20 years later and i can still feel the pain in my chest when my dad told me how disappointed he was in me for lying.

The purpose of this post is not to illicit sympathy; but to highlight how impressionable children are. I'm sure my parents and aunt don't even remember that day, but it has haunted me for most of my life. The things you do, and the way you relate to children can have meaningful and long-lasting effects. Be kind to your kids, even when they make mistakes, because there are no do-overs.

I love my grandmother. She was an amazing woman, who loved me and brought light into my life. But her alcoholism has had a huge effect on me; so choose your children over a drink, choose your grandchildren or even better, choose yourself.

Self-Esteem

I haven't blogged in months. I would love to tell you that I was too busy living life to talk to a computer screen but the reality is much more mundane and predictable; my depression and mood instability had improved, and I was too afraid to write as a (mostly) mentally competent person. Poor writing and bad grammar can be excused when you are cognitively impaired, but I discovered I lack the mental fortitude/balls to be judged as a functioning human being.

Luckily, for nobody, I am once again cocooned in the familiar blanket of depression; albeit a milder manifestation than its predecessor. So to the keyboard I return, for better or worse.

Over the last year I have done a lot of work with my therapists to address and, in most cases, move past events in my life that have contributed to my being an emotional equivalent of a broken condom. Yet my core belief system remained unchanged. No matter how many 'Mother hates me' sessions I had, I still couldn't look myself in the eye. And then I realised that I was missing something - self-esteem.

Let me be clear, I absolutely do not think that everyone else is walking around full of pride; dignity oozing from their pores like cheese from a perfectly stuffed pizza crust. I believe most of us have some level of insecurity, and if you don't, you're probably the next Ted Bundy. Or Tom Hardy. But I've come to realise that my self-deprecation is yet another maladaptive coping mechanism I lean on. And I have no idea how to overcome it. I looked through every page of my stupid (and useful, whatever) DBT folder and there is nothing on self-esteem.

So I googled self-esteem, and there was one exercise that appeared on nearly every page - List things you like about yourself. Reader, I laughed. I was first asked to list what I like about myself in 2004, during group therapy. I had nothing, I handed up a blank page. During my last admission, in August/September 2015, I was asked the same question; after 9 weeks I had nothing. Yesterday I tried to think of three things I like about myself, I have nothing.

If I tried to think of three things I don't like about myself? No problem. Although I think that's the case for many of us. Not that we can't think of our positive attributes, but that it is much easier to highlight our flaws. Personally, would much rather you ask me for a list of flaws, I'm comfortable and well-acquainted with those. But listing all of my disparaging beliefs would be rather long and boring, so instead I will consider my thoughts over a one hour period.

The purpose of this isn't to elicit sympathy,but rather to acknowledge the impact of low self-esteem and hopefully garner some much needed advice.

I have picked this hour for several reasons; first, it's the present, so my memory isn't required; second, I'm alone, thus removing the possibility of outside interference. Finally, nothing massively life altering or heart breaking has happened today. Yet. There's always time for life to be a dick.

I am constantly amazed and disgusted by how naturally pessimistic my outlook is.

You're an attention seeking whore for posting this.

Your hands are dry. and masculine.

Stop wondering what will happen next, you stupid whore.

Everyone already hates you, this is just adding fuel to the fire.

your thighs are touching, you fat cow.

You're fat now and you still don't have boobs. lol.

Waste of space.

Useless.

Your dogs hate you.

You're fucking ugly.

They literally hate you, they want Alan.

that sigh means Loki hates you.

You type too slow.

seriously stop rubbing your dry claws together.

Your hair is greasy.

You are the ugly friend.

You are a waste of space and money.

Remember money? It's that thing you don't have. Because you're useless.

Genuinely, everyone hates you.

Yes, even them. Remember they didn't reply to you tagging them on a comment on FB? It's because they hate you.

Ooo you're the pity friend! Familiar role for you, loser.

Seriously, your dogs hate you. They won't even cuddle you.

ooo remember how you got fat? That was hilarious right? No? Because you're disgusting now?

They all laugh at you. You know that, right? You don't really fit it, pity invite for one!

Fuck you are pathetic. Can't even afford a cup of coffee.

Also, fat now. FYI.

how's the new career going? Not great? Figures, right?

And nobody wants you there? Because you're fat and ugly maybe?

Remember when you could skip food all day? Willpower eh? None left no?

Oh hey, and you're fucking boring. Go on, discuss the presidential debate, with specifics... No? Global Warming? Property? EINSTEIN?

Literately nothing.

Just visualise your thighs touching off of each other. And your hips getting padded. And your face being plumper.

Good times right? No? Oh fuck... it happens every time. I remember the truth - I'm stuck with this face and brain.


Okay, I gave up after 24 minutes. Mostly because my mind was racing and I couldn't type fast enough.

So that's 24 minutes of me sitting in a chair in my living room, incident free. Just me being me. Fuck I hate me.