So…in case you are wondering…
I’m not crazy…
Or even truly depressed.
My therapist sez so.
She is fairly amazed at my awareness and understanding and ability to articulate.
[Doesn’t surprise me. I’ve always been told this.]
Somehow that gives me little relief.
[And never has.]
I told her awareness and understanding doesn’t make me able to resolve my anxious state of mind or my negative feelings.
I wish I were crazy…then it would absolve me of the responsibility of fixing the problems.
Or, I could simply take a pill so the crazy goes away.
Or take an extended vacation in a loony bin.
I’m turning 40 next week…Tuesday, in fact.
[When I was an angst-ridden, rebellious teenager I’d sometimes scream to my mother, “oh, yeah? Well I don’t want to live past 40, anyway”].
[I wonder if I’ll go *poof* at 8:32 pm…exactly the moment I turn 40].
I’m going to see my dad too. I haven’t seen in him in 29 years.
Yeah. THAT is crazy.
My therapist asked me if I was going to ask my father a lot of questions.
I said I wasn’t planning on any.
A few months ago, I would have said yes, and would have had a list of questions I’d been dying to ask for years.
On a particularly shocking story of something that happened over 40 years ago, there are two decidedly different versions. The version my father has, and the version my mother has.
It was one of the major reasons for their divorce.
Which means…someone is lying to me.
Which is NOTHING new.
Someone was always lying to me…telling me untruths about myself (that I was fat, ugly, crazy, stupid) or untruths about my abilities (you’ll never survive on your own), or untruths about my reality (sorry, I don’t have any examples of this at the top of my head).
In the comments below…it came to me, as I paused a moment to collect my thoughts…
A voice from within my head (my mother or even maybe my grandmother), “You should be ashamed of yourself”.
Yeah, I am.
Sometimes I hate me.
No…many times I hate me…more so now that I became a mother.
Because I can be mean…just like HER.
My therapist has pity for me…that I am a motherless mother…that my insecure attachment to my mother to me has left me the way I am…
Yeah…so what do I do about it?
Claw and scratch my way back to some sort of healthy self-respect???
My therapist says I’m much too hard on myself.
But I say, if I’m not hard on me…then I won’t change.
[or maybe I simply miss the abuse, so I abuse myself.]
I’m hoping that the 18 hour train ride to Colorado will provide me with ample time to reflect and write and discover something of use to me.
I’m hoping that I come back a changed person. That some missing piece will finally slide into place and everything will all make sense.
That suddenly I’ll “straighten up and fly right.”
That’s not too much to ask, is it?