Just Me and My Teddy Bear

Sometimes I have feelings of empty arms. Like I want to reach out and hug the air or something. I have felt the need to reach out and hold someone or something since before my breakdown of 2014, never knowing why. Now I know it was the desire to hold my Anastasia and Hanelore. I will never be able to do that in the earthly realm. There will never even be suitable substitute for that ever even. But I have found something that is the best that can be, for now. MY TEDDY BEAR!

 

The story of my teddy bear:

 I've had him for as long as I can remember. I am over 40 years old. So I know he is at least 35 years old. He had been in storage for quite a few years. I think there may be a metaphor coming... But I digress. On to how he came to be and why he is special. 

He was made by my great grandmother. I loved my great grandmother. I was very close to her. So I am sure he was made when I was real small. I do not recall her giving him to me. I am sure I would remember if I had been old enough. 

You can see he has a  major rip in his neck.

I should get that fixed before his head just pops off one these days while I am hugging him. How did he get that rip? On Christmas my mother and I got in a big fight. (We are working on things. Starting to bond. But there are ups and downs in that) I was frustrated. I felt like busting out of my skin. I was angry and frustrated. Grabbed the teddy bear by the legs and hit his head on the footboard of my bed. Then the seam at the neck popped open. There is also another seam or two that were there before the neck bust.

I know how to sew. Both hand and by machine. I used to love sewing. There are many things I used to love doing. But now I just don't feel like doing them anymore. A part of me doesn't want to stitch him back. He is broken, like me. We are somewhat matched, I suppose. I want to be unbroken, but I don't know how to be. The teddy bear can be fixed up with a few stitches. But there really is no healing formula for hurting people.

He doesn't have a name either. I suppose another match to me. Obviously I have a name. But sometimes I feel like I don't. As though I am just an anonymous figure getting through life, without an identity.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with anxiety. No feelings. Neither sad, happy, mad or angry. Just there. Sometimes I will read from the Bible or a Psalm or two. Pray. But there are times when reading just seems a chore, or I am unable to open my mouth to pray. Those are the times where I just hold the teddy bear and fall back asleep. In fact I was holding him in front of the computer, while contemplating writing. Set him on the desk. Now I am holding him again as I finish writing this post.

More about Grandma!

Yesterday I posted in regards to my grandmother being the one who first wanted me to have the abortion. I suppose I did say some not so nice things in regards to my feelings about her. Not that I am making excuses, but my emotions are rather raw right now. I am confused. This is not the grandma I know/knew.

Grandma's are supposed to be nice and kind and caring and patient and loving. And knit things and cook big meals and stuff. Or at least that's the stereotype.

When I started remembering the abortion I wondered why she never "rescued" me from my mother. Thinking that she was just a "go along" during the "intervention". Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that she would want that for me. That she wouldn't have wanted to hold her own granddaughter's child. I was wondering why she never called me up and "snuck behind my mom's back" to take me somewhere to get info on alternatives to abortion, should I not keep my child. Well I guess I know why. Ain't it just a kicker, huh?

My parents are divorced. I may have mentioned that before, not sure. As a child I spent many days after school at my grandparents' while my mom was still at work. My mom always seemed busy with one thing or another. Grandpa was usually watching TV or fixing his car or fixing something else. But my grandma was always there. Maybe it was just to go shopping at the mall or grocery store. Sometimes she would take me with her to help her mother run errands. It was always nice to have lunch with my grandma and great grandma. Sometimes we would just sit in the living room watching soaps or Phil Donahue. Sometimes I would help her cook.

So this revelation just smacked me out of nowhere. I can not seem to wrap my head around it. Why would she want to hurt me so bad?

Grandma!

Is it wrong for me to say I hate my grandmother? My 90 year old grandmother that is. That I currently do not want to see her anymore? That I hope she dies before my cousins have kids of their own? Does this sound bad? It does to me. But I can't help it.

A lot has been going since my last post, and definitely since I started blogging, off and on. Having blow ups and reconciliations with my mother, and another blow up. See, a few weeks ago I found out something major that changes the whole narration of Her Views Turned on a Dime. I found out that the abortion was initially my grandmother's idea.

Supposedly, the story goes that after my mother and I told my aunt and grandmother that I was pregnant my grandma took my mother aside and told her I should have an abortion. Why? Because she wanted to hide my pregnancy. She didn't want anyone to know I had sex with my boyfriend. And, and, I can't say for sure, only speculate, but I think there was some vanity going on. She wasn't 70 yet. I honestly think she thought she "wasn't old enough to be a great grandma."

She's never even said anything to admitting to the abortion being her idea first. Even after me finally admitting to being bothered by it. I recall after my mother came for a visit I told her about a fight I had with my mother. I made mention that my mother's true anger is at Planned Parenthood. As I thought my mother had talked to Planned Parenthood before the "intervention." My grandma didn't correct me and admit it was her.

She told me I needed to move on and forget about it. I explained to her that I did that for twenty years. That I eventually broke down and remembered. I told her about the first dream I had about Anastasia and Hanelore. She told me dreams don't mean anything. And the abortion was for the best. It was God's Plan! Really?! God plans for people to have abortions?!

Pisses me off! She doesn't even care that two future generations are gone for the from the family, because of some dumb image idea! That she doesn't care how hurt I am feeling. That she has no clue what it was like to have my legs in a stirrup with a vacuum up my cooch!