You don't get to tell me that it's time for me to be happy now.
In the last year or so, I have lost my family.
I have lost all hope of ever finding my faith again--in fact, I don't believe in god now and can't discern any purpose to the universe in general.
I have discovered that my marriage is a fraud and I can't tolerate my husband's touch.
I have realized that there are parts of me that are irreparably broken and I will forever feel like an outsider in my own world.
And in the most unbearable and pathetic transformation, I have lost my ability to dissociate at will. I feel like my skin has been ripped off and I am walking around in acid rain all the time. It's pathetic because I know everyone else feels their emotions all the time, and sure it's unpleasant or painful at times, but hey, that's part of being human so what's the big deal, right? Except I truly believe my emotions can kill me when they become overwhelming and suffocating and I can't turn them off anymore.
So I should get out more often, go to lunch with a friend, go shopping, because it's time to move on to the next phase of my life? Really? That's your suggestion for feeling "better"?
Fuck you.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Grieving My Narcissistic Mother
I've been in a funk now for a while. More than a funk, really--more than just the blues or feeling down in the dumps. And more than just a while. I really think it started around Mother's Day this past May.
For many years I struggled with buying a Mother's Day card for my mother. I couldn't buy one that showered her with praises for her extraordinary maternal virtues or gushed with my undying gratitude and love for her, because frankly that would have been dishonest. If Hallmark made a card that said, "Happy Mother's Day...Thanks for not actually killing me," that would have been perfect. But I didn't have that problem this year, or last year either for that matter, because I no longer have any contact with my family of origin. Haven't had in 1 year, 2 months, and three weeks, in fact. But who's counting?
For many years I struggled with buying a Mother's Day card for my mother. I couldn't buy one that showered her with praises for her extraordinary maternal virtues or gushed with my undying gratitude and love for her, because frankly that would have been dishonest. If Hallmark made a card that said, "Happy Mother's Day...Thanks for not actually killing me," that would have been perfect. But I didn't have that problem this year, or last year either for that matter, because I no longer have any contact with my family of origin. Haven't had in 1 year, 2 months, and three weeks, in fact. But who's counting?
Soulburn
I need to write about something a little different today.
I understand, intellectually, that remembering my fundamentalist and homeschooling days is painful yet constructive. Painful because as I work through these memories, more details come back to me, and I begin to feel the emotions I had to suppress at the time as they now bubble up to the surface. Constructive because I know that writing here is helping me to process those emotions and to begin outlining a more coherent narrative of my childhood and adolescent memories, which is something I've never had. Memories formed during traumatic experiences tend to differ from normal, everyday memories in their fragmented and jumbled nature, so writing through these years, putting these events to virtual paper, is creating a new story for my life. I know that in time I will benefit from these explorations.
But there is a downside to all of this mental spelunking. As I reflect upon my past, I've begun to recognize connections between the discrete snapshot memories that pop unexpectedly into my head and larger events or developments that have occurred in my life. And that hurts in a way that's hard to describe.
I understand, intellectually, that remembering my fundamentalist and homeschooling days is painful yet constructive. Painful because as I work through these memories, more details come back to me, and I begin to feel the emotions I had to suppress at the time as they now bubble up to the surface. Constructive because I know that writing here is helping me to process those emotions and to begin outlining a more coherent narrative of my childhood and adolescent memories, which is something I've never had. Memories formed during traumatic experiences tend to differ from normal, everyday memories in their fragmented and jumbled nature, so writing through these years, putting these events to virtual paper, is creating a new story for my life. I know that in time I will benefit from these explorations.
But there is a downside to all of this mental spelunking. As I reflect upon my past, I've begun to recognize connections between the discrete snapshot memories that pop unexpectedly into my head and larger events or developments that have occurred in my life. And that hurts in a way that's hard to describe.
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