So when I used to have this horribly monsterous and abusive husband, one of the things most strongly engrained in my memory about that period of my life is how I was accused of things constantly; things that never even crossed my mind, much less actually represented reality. I vividly recall waking up one night from a dead sleep in my bed to his hands around my throat being choked nearly to death because he truly believed that I had been flashing signals and signs out the window to a car that kept driving back-and-forth up-and-down our street in the middle of the night. The reality behind this was that I had no clue who that person in that car was; and, definitely had not been flashing signals and/or signs to them from my window; I had been out cold with a sinus infection. My recollections of that period in my life are full of such instances; times when I had absolutely no control or involvement in the things that I was paying the most brutal consequences for. The helplessness that defined my life during those years was immense; so immense, that it’s still with me to some extent, even today. My most recent attempt at a meaningful and worthwhile relationship has failed at last.
This has been partially due to certain lingering effects of my own residual trauma i.e. the inability I continue to harbor reagarding trust and commitment, its true. But the main cause behind the most recent going down in flames I’ve actually come to recognize and acknowledge for what it has turned out to be: My natural response to the helplessness put forth as a result of repeatedly being accused of things I haven’t done. I have come too far to fall back down into such a miserable situation in which my own true identity has been marred by the paranoid and insecure notions of the other person in the relationship.
That is not a relationship. And that is not healthy. I’m striving for healthy and have realized that the thing I’ve come to comfortably call “my relationship” was (from the beginning) the opposite of what I’ve been seeking out.
Based on the fact that she is my Mother, and wasn’t present in any way, shape or form throughout my youngest days, she has been glorified in my heart and my mind somehow; in my mind over time, she has morphed into some painted-faced Goddess with great power and control over my actions and sense of self; she continues to have the carrot to dangle before me, and I continue to focus on it and follow her lead.
She is my Mother, yes – but she is not right in the head, and never was – so I’m told…she never had any business having babies of her own with a head as twisted as hers – never had the stuff it takes to be somebody’s Mama. My Mother doesn’t really know how to care about other people; she is just hard-wired that way…some people call it sociopathy, others call narcissism; she’s a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic – she has the history of getting way out there at times, if not medicated and monitored regularly by a “specialist”. She is aggressive and violently explosive in her mental instability; this is the trait about her that she has most impressed upon me throughout my lifetime in observation of her behaviors; she is ruthless when it suits her needs – I have bared witness to this many times, as well as played the role of her “victim” during such instances also.
I cannot trust her word – it is mud in my book; despite what she says, her actions always speak horribly louder than what she tells me. Anyway, our relationship is the epitome of awkward and edgy, because it newborn for the most part – I am only barely getting to know her, I’ve never made the effort in the past. She is a nut job, no doubt – and oftentimes, when I have a conversation with her, I find myself hardly able to control myself from just bursting out:
“The fuck are you talking about, Man?!!!”
I just can’t relate to any of the things that define the daily existence of my Mother, Willow…she is seriously on another planet in my opinion…all I can do is just shake my fucking head over it, I suppose.
I have these dawning moments when: everything around me tightly closes in tunneled down by a tornado’s spin – and at end of the tunnel – lies the booming realization; I have these dulled down memories: so very many once meaningful things carved, imparted on the dark heart of me – but I have let them fade away – no new recollections to retrieve; I know of some of the sacred divinities: many thing shown to me by the elderly drawn like a map amidst the Mysteries – however, the mystery is gone – what fills its place, tastes bitterly; I live amidst a sense of danger and doom: like a shadow cast by a permanent gloom no matter where I go, it’s in the room – it’s impeded upon a part of me – not likely to change anytime soon; I display a die-hard tendency: hardens the hardness of the people I see deepens the darkness of the world around me – to lead the horses to the water – and wait there until each one drinks; I am modified by the things that I’ve survived: skin on my body grown from cells that were not mine ears pinned to my head like Frankenstein – these things were never easy – but they’ve sure made me feel alive. I try my best to look ahead: not get tangled up in any said and done webs not worry about what he or she might have said – no matter they say about the end of another day – we’re all just one day closer to being dead.
How bad of a thing is it that the most therapeutic thing I can think of whenever I am in the company of my “therapist” is head-butting him until he’s totally unconscious?…like, unconscious for a long time?
I mean, I guess I know by now that he’s NOT necessarily holding a recording device behind his back with every greeting (my own paranoia), or staging a bust with the local psychiatric ward upon my arrival to his office (my own paranoia), or that he is going to “dump me” out of nowhere (my own abandonment issues), or that he is going to force me to sign a contract that holds me liable to see him every other day (my own commitment issues), or that his tiny, too-high-off-the-ground office is eventually gonna swallow me whole (my own agoraphobia and anxiety in enclosed spaces, especially with men). Lastly, I know by now that he poses no physical threat to me whatsoever, but it’s been eight years off and on with him already.
None of these things seem to be able to keep me from wanting to take a chunk out his face with my teeth upon him pointing something that should’ve been plainly obvious to me, in retrospect…I hate when he does that!
Any of my readers know about my longstanding Mommy issues, well – you know as much about them as I do, I should say…my Mom has been acting passive-aggressive again lately to me, and it hurts me when she does that, even still, somehow. Despite all I’ve learned and admitted and accepted – she still has the keen ability to just trample my heart in a very unique manner.
This morning, “Dr. Cluckenquack” said to me in a disgusted tone, “Why do you even allow her close enough to you to hurt you this way?”, as if he were asking me why I hadn’t worn rain boots to his office today (in the rain). I wanted to chop him in his throat right then and there for stating the apparent reality of the circumstance so plainly like that, but didn’t even respond in a snotty way when I stated: “She is my mother, she gave birth to me…she’s my Mom…”
I was spacing out already from the session’s emotionally painful content, so I don’t know why I was so passive in the moment but maybe that’s why…because when I got to work afterwards, I was fuming and super pissed for at least a good hour…wtf??? Therapy???