The Therapy.

The blog is the therapy.  I knew it, but I didn’t truly realize it until now.

What I mean is, when I can’t talk to someone else – not completely – and when I can’t talk to my therapist, I come here.

Right now I’m not talking to my therapist because I’m fine.  I don’t need therapy.

Funny thought.

So here I am again, 2 days in a row after months unwritten.  The topic today? Me writhing in my own shit once again.  I made my bed; now I have to lay in it.

Only…This bed yells at me, tells me something is wrong in me, that I have hate in my voice when I speak (perhaps I should speak with Hillary Clinton).  Tells me I have no right to speak to my doctor on my own. I speak back in a confident voice that is not my own. And once the call ends, I break down. I break down for hours without end….because the tears seem to come from that endless well that I’ve spoken of for so many years.  Yet I’ve never reached the bottom.  When will I find it?

That bed.  I’ve made that bed.  And now I’m laying in it.  And it wreaks.  It crawls.  The bugs are biting me in unseen places.

I come home and realize: I never should have done this.  I knew it could never work.  He was never a changed person.   Did it happen?  I don’t know.  But I can’t handle him.  I was healthier without him.  Undeniably.  Yes? No?  So many doubts.

The only thing undeniable right now is the love my Golden Retriever has for me right now. That….Now, that, is something I can always count on.  For now, that will be enough to satisfy this troubled soul.

What other shoe?

Oh, yes.  That one.  The one I was waiting for and nearly thought wasn’t coming.  But no, oh no, no, no.  There it is.

My mother has gone batshit cray cray.  Putting humor to this is the only way my mind can cope because this is just…Blank.  Wordless.  My mind can’t fathom it.

For years, my mind, the big parts, the little parts (especially the wee little ones), held onto my mother being the sane one.  Being the more protective and safe of the two.  She yells and slams the door and I sit outside of it crying as a 6 year old and begging her to forgive me for God knows what?  Doesn’t matter.  Her arms were safer than his.

She would tell me I was selfish right after my parents divorced and I wasn’t taking care of her needs enough.   She still didn’t call me a bitch like he did.  She would tell me I was beautiful… during the times she wasn’t criticizing me about my weight.

She cried on the side of the road and told me her life was a deep, dark depressive hole.  I had her move in with me so that her burden of paying so much rent could be lifted and perhaps she could escape the wrath of my father.  It did not happen.

I cut off contact with my father, and instead of being proud of me, she begged me to apologize to him for the sake of her life and her job. I was getting stronger.  I did not apologize, but I told him to take out his battles with me and not her.  She was still unhappy with this.

She kept expecting my constant apologies like I always used to give, but I continued to grow stronger, thanks to my friends, my job, my therapy, my ever-growing, ever-changing adult life forcing me to establish my own identity, separate from her.  She did not, and has not, been getting those apologies.  I am now labeled as a selfish person who fails to take the blame for the “thoughtless behavior that I unleash on others.”

I am now labeled as “physically violent.”  My mother tried to physically restrain me the other night, grabbing my wrists.  I made a motion, not a violent one, but an automatic reaction to pull my hands away, and she fell backwards.  Dramatically.  I say this because she has openly admitted to a friend and me that she has intentionally thrown herself off of the stairs for attention (then quickly added, as a child, as an afterthought).  Coincidentally, a similar incident happened a couple of months ago.

Back to our argument.  She fell.  I tried to go to my room and requested she go downstairs, to her basement apartment, which we agreed would be kept separate from my upstairs apartment.  I shut my bedroom doors.  She yelled at me through the doors that I will be alone for the rest of my life if I continue to act this way.  I opened the doors and told her, “What right do you have to say that, seeing as I am the one with a plethora of friends and you stay home alone all day?”

She did not hear this.  I walked past her to get the phone to call my friend so that it would diffuse the conversation.  I tried to walk out the front door.  She blocked my way and I pushed past her.  She fell down again.  Her arm reached out for the banister as she fell, and then she took it back.  She never makes any attempts to catch herself.

She screamed at me that I will be alone for the rest of my life.  Curious how this started?  It all started because she spoke again with my ex-boyfriend who is only 20 years old (I am 25), and he told her intimate details about his sexual abuse.  She proceeded to tell me as if it would make me want to get back together with him. She started to tell me details.  I stopped her and I said, “Before you go any further, have you even thought about what effect this might have on me?”

She ignored me.  I took that as a no.  And it hit me…She is pissed that I won’t tell her any fucking details about my sexual abuse from my father – her ex-husband. And I realized that I want nothing to do with this woman.  Nothing.

I packed a bag and left.  I stayed at a hotel that night and spent the next with a friend.  I am stuck in this house agreement with her until we’ve earned some equity and can sell it.  She has plans to renovate her downstairs area.  I asked her to please prioritize the door separating our two floors and that I would like a lock on my side.  She agreed.

She sent me a scathing text telling me to “NEVER touch her in a violent way EVER again.”  I told her I don’t want to be around her.  She said, “Trust me, I won’t go anywhere near you.”  Apparently, I have the whole world snowed.  All of my friends, my therapist, everyone I meet.  None of them know the “real me.” Only her and my ex-boyfriend.

Apparently, I am a threat.  Maybe I should wear a mask like Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs.

It’s too bad…. My fingers are so tired from typing all of this, I don’t even feel like typing out the whole story of the guy that came to my door and requested a “ride” from me, had scoped out my house earlier in the day and was convicted of kidnapping, assault, and robbery a year prior, and the police hardly did a thing. It’s been a fun few days.