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Category Archives: never good enough

Calgon take me away

Preface: This blog is about me and my experience/feelings with regards to medications. It is not a judgement on or valuation of what anyone else does/feels with regards to their anxiety, depression, pain, insomnia, allergies…etc.


Monday morning I went to physical therapy for my shoulder. I’ve been going for close on to six weeks I think, but only once a week because they are so booked they can’t usually fit me in twice a week. This past Monday, I actually cried during the appointment because the pain was a) so bad and b) so frustrating. For the first three weeks or so, I was doing my exercises religiously at home. Then the therapist started adding in more and more exercises–without giving them to me in written or picture form–and I got overwhelmed and lost. I still try to do stuff daily, but it’s not everything I should be doing. Even so, I’m continuing to progress with my flexibility, but the pain continues. And I guess because the therapist is trying to push my range, the pain is…bad.

I am extremely sensitive to medications, and have been for most of my adult life. I don’t even take OTC pain killers like ibuprofin or acetaminophen or tylenol because they either screw up my stomach or they don’t work. I will take anti-biotics when prescribed, but I hate the experience and it’s mentally very challenging for me.

So last night I was in the shower and thinking about how much my shoulder still hurt, how sore it was, and I was under the hot spray of water and thinking…if I only took pain killers this would be a lot easier. And I knew…I KNEW part of the reason I don’t take pain killers or cold medication or antihistamines or sleeping pills or any other medication is that I would cause a bigger issue for myself. It’s NO LIE that I have medication sensitivities…I very much do have them. But maybe if I searched hard enough I could find things that work for me. I don’t do this…and here’s why.

About fifteen years ago I had a bad cold…a sore throat that was horrendously painful. I started using these OTC throat drops that had some kind of liquid medication in the middle. It was probably Haul’s brand, probably cherry flavored. I used them constantly in the beginning and they seemed to help. Then my throat started getting better but I literally got addicted to them and was continuing to suck on them like they were candy. I had to use them. I was addicted and I had to have one in my mouth almost all the time. It was vaguely terrifying when I finally realized what was happening (maybe like 3-4 weeks later). I quit them cold turkey and made Hub take the bag to work with him to throw away. I knew if they were in the trash in my house, I would dig them out and eat them. I don’t buy those kind of lozenges anymore, though in the last two or three years I have started buying honey-drops for sore throats.

I don’t do drugs and I don’t drink any alcohol and I don’t smoke. I never did any of those things. I feel like if I did or if I started using something like pain killers or anti-anxiety medication or sleeping pills, I would be using them constantly and for the wrong reason. I’d be in less pain, I’d probably have less anxiety, I might sleep more, but I’d also be zoned out and not living. I would just figure out the best way to shut myself off from everything and everyone in life by doping myself up on OTC or prescription medication. I would be gone, in every sense of the word. I’m not sure I’ve ever admitted this fear to anyone out loud, but in my heart I know that I’d use the medications to hide away. I’m not sure I’d be doing anything illegal or overdosing on the meds–or even overusing in any significant way–but I’d be using them in a way that would excuse me from life.

I feel like my anxiety over medications keeps me safe from all of this. Yes, I DID use some pain medication after my first surgery, but it was only a day or so (and so regimented!) and then I used tylenol. And then after a day or so I used nothing. The second surgery I didn’t use pain meds because I didn’t like the way they made me feel the first time, so I used tylenol as needed and I suffered through. I suffer through pain on a daily basis because I’m afraid of who I would become if I muted all the pain in my life…physical and mental.

Before I first got sick in 2001 (at 29yo), I’m not sure I ever really needed medications. Sure, I probably took cold meds on and off over the years, and never gave it another thought. Yes I did use Advil every month for cramps (which is how I ended up with stomach issues!) and probably occasionally for headaches. But after I got sick, everything changed, including who I really was. Who I really am.

The physical therapist said that I could go back to my Ortho doctor and ask to get a steroid injection to help with the pain as we continue with rehab, but I declined. I hate the pain I live with daily, and I hate the pain that reduces me to tears during PT, but the pain reminds me that I’m alive. I’m alive and I’m experiencing life.

This all sounds very fucked up. I guess I’m not surprised at that revelation.

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Fake (my) news

Do you listen to yourself talk? Do you have an internal editor who sifts through what you say before you say it? Do you tell people the truth when they ask you questions?

I don’t remember when this happened, but one day I remember listening to myself talk as if I were watching the conversation from outside of it. Not in a derealization kind of way, just in a way of WTF am I doing? Someone had asked me something and I was answering them, and the words coming out of my mouth were–technically speaking–lies. I wasn’t lying with malice, I was lying because I didn’t want the person to know how shitty I was feeling. I was lying because I didn’t want to have to deal with the eventual questions of why and have you seen a doctor and have you tried x. I was lying because I didn’t want the person to pity me, or to worry about me, or to think less of me for my health issues.

I’m in pain almost every day, from various parts of my body. Possibly from my mind, who knows. I feel lousy the majority of the days in recent years…not pain specifically, but sometimes it’s anxiety, sometimes it’s due to a known illness, sometimes it’s what my mind conjures, and sometimes it’s some unknown ailment. I get tired of telling people how I’m feeling when they ask. And for the most part, it’s not about them, it’s about me. I don’t want to deal with whatever the blow-back is, as I said above.

And on this particular day, I came to a realization of how often I lie (without malice) to people. Clearly I do it without forethought or planning…and in some cases it seems to be an automatic response. I try not to do it with Hub (he can often see through me anyway) and I definitely try not to do it with my therapist. Sometimes I will edit the “truth”, even though I suspect both of them know it. But with everyone else? I lie. I give fake answers. I edit the things I’m saying to meet the person I’m conversing with.

I hate how are you? I despise how are you feeling? I always feel put on the spot to answer in a manner that the person asking can understand or respond to in a manner that works for them. I absolutely abhor when Hub asks me what hurts or does something hurt? Again, no one else’s issue other than mine, but this is the truth.

I don’t remember a time when my body didn’t harbor pain. I don’t remember a time when my body didn’t report some form of illness–real or anxiety-induced. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t lie to people about those things.

How are you? Shitty.

How are you feeling? Shitty.

What hurts? Everything.

Giving those answers…what does it do for me or for the person asking? Nothing. It puts me on the spot to explain, clarify, defend, respond…and I don’t want to anymore. I would very much wish that I wouldn’t need to anymore, but in lieu of that, I lie.

How are you? Fine, thanks.

How are you feeling? Good days and bad days.

What hurts? Nothing new or different.

If you can’t beat ’em, fake ’em?

 

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Unnoticed and feeling the guilt

I am having a bad day. I am going to whine about it. You are forewarned.

Technically speaking, this is day 2 of the “bad day”. On Monday, I decided for no apparent reason that it was time for a haircut. I don’t like haircuts, they give me anxiety. More specifically, making the appointment and going to the salon (and being IN the salon) gives me anxiety. The haircut is not that big a deal for me anymore…I know it will grow back. I know if it’s a bad cut, I’ll deal with it somehow. It’s just hair. I came to that conclusion when about 8 years ago I cut off 23″ of hair and sent it off to one of the organizations that makes wigs for children with cancer. It was the same way that time…I made the decision, I went, it was over with, I survived it and the ensuing days/months/years with short hair (for the first time in 30 years). Since then, the change from long(ish) hair to shorter hair doesn’t bother me. But having to call to make the appointment…and then survive the appointment, they are anxiety-making.

I am not good at small talk. People think I’m good at it, but I hate it. I spend days before trying to think of things to say and/or talk about. Then I feel like an idiot having the conversation. I don’t know the stylists, I don’t know their lives or their interests…I just feel dumb. In addition to that, I have anxiety over the hair washing station. I hate having my head resting on that thing because it hurts. I’ve heard of instances where people can have strokes from resting against those tubs (true? not true? does it matter to anxiety? nope). I also end up with muscle strain from being stretched to sit with my head on that tub thingy. Sometimes I wash my hair at home and go with wet hair so they don’t have to wash it again. But then I feel like the haircut isn’t as good because they didn’t see my hair ahead of time, dry, to see how it needs to be cut. I also feel judged when I’m sitting in the salon…just because I feel like it’s a frufru place. I feel out of place there.

Okay, so I called and made an appointment with the stylist I saw last time. She does an okay job and isn’t overly talkative. She looks like Pink! I’m just saying, she’s a bombshell. I’m always intimidated by her. But I wanted to get something fun done and she’s the queen of that kind of stuff (her instagram rocks). I found a color I wanted for my hair and brought it with me. She did the color job, cut my hair, then blew it out (without asking). I both love and hate having my hair blown out. I like it because it’s different and I can’t do it at home. I don’t like it because it doesn’t look like me and then I never know how my cut really is with my normal hair. I left the salon (after leaving a rully nice tip because that’s how I have to be) and came home. I wanted my hair to be reddish purple. Yes, I said it. My hair is normally brown. I used to dye it red all the time…oftentimes a very unnatural red because box color is hard, ya’ll. So I came home and I am looking at my hair and it’s reddish. But I see no purple. I had worked myself up to purple-ish hair and it’s just…red. Hub says he sees purplish, I don’t see it. I’m disappointed. I haven’t washed my hair yet so I have no idea if the cut is okay, but even if it isn’t…it just is what it is. And it’s shorter than I expected…as it always is.

So I’m home. And I’m trying to ignore my hair. And I talk to my mother, who only knows I went to get my hair cut. And she’s telling me that my brother (who lives with them) is upset about something he didn’t know about…because he has to know everything. Even when it has nothing to do with him. And I’m one of the people who knew about this…THING that has nothing to do with him. Part of it was my doing. So she asks me to tell him about it and I get mad. I tell him, then I tell him if he has questions he should ask her…which he doesn’t bother to do. He just wanted to be mad and make my mother feel badly. He’s really self-centered and doesn’t think about other people. He’s sure the world should revolve around him. His schedule, his knowledge, his life. It’s very difficult for me because although he’s older than I am, I often feel like I’m taking care of him. I often feel like everyone is catering to him, even though he’s entirely capable of being an adult.

So that was yesterday, and now it’s today. I go over to go with my parents’ to my mother’s lymphedema appointment and I tell my mother than I’m angry with my brother. She takes his side, tells me not to be angry. And I tell her I’m allowed to be angry. Then she tells me she likes the color of the pants she’s wearing. I bought her those pants so she’d have something with larger legs that would cover her lymphedema wraps. I picked out the color for her, I ordered the pants, I did it without asking because I knew it would be helpful. She said she liked the color of the pants but didn’t say thank you to me for taking care of it for her. She didn’t mention one word about my obviously reddish hair. She only told me not to be mad at my brother because “he can’t help it” if he is the way he is (she made him that way because she lets him get away with it) and told me she liked the color of her pants.

I helped her roll her wheelchair into the bathroom so she could go before we left for her appointment, then I sat down in their living room and texted Hub and said, “I feel unnoticed and unappreciated.” He wrote back that he was sorry, that he loved me, and that he liked my hair. I help my mother down the hall in her wheelchair and into the mudroom to get her coat on. We get in the car. There’s no conversation because I don’t initiate conversation. Normally I try to keep Mom occupied, but I didn’t today. We get to her appointment and the therapist starts talking about wrapping Mom’s legs at home. And I’m volunteered. Because my father has no patience. And who else is there? And in my head I’m already thinking of how often I’m going to need to unwrap and rewrap her. What weird hours of the day she’s going to want that done. The therapist tries to train me to wrap my mother’s legs–feet, calves, thighs–so she does one leg and I do one leg. My OCD gets to me, it takes me three times as long to wrap the leg I’m working on versus the therapist (I know, she’s been doing it for 14 years…but it’s my brain hating on me). We finish up and go back to the car. I’m silent on the way home, though I’m texting with another brother about some paperwork we’re trying to finish up for my parents. And we’re talking about the brother who lives with my parents and how frustrated I am.

We get home. I put together all the wraps from the last appointment to take home so I can wash them…because who else is going to? I ask Mom if I can get her anything and she says no. Then she says, “You got your hair cut?” I said yes. That was the end of the conversation. I put my coat on and came home to take care of my dogs and wash the wraps.

I feel like I’m unnoticed and I feel terrible for feeling this way. I wouldn’t be anywhere else. I wouldn’t NOT do the things I’m doing. I wouldn’t not buy the clothes she needs, or try to buy the wheelchair cushion she needs (it’s too hard and it makes my back hurt–not thanks for thinking of it, but can we try finding something different…), or wash the wraps, or go to the appointments or buy the food or supervise the cleaning people or clip her toenails or cut her fingernails or make her soup the way she likes it or  … or… or…

But I’m still a person. I still want to be seen as a person. Their daughter, their sister…not just the person who is doing all the things that no one else is doing. Not the person who had to learn how to read and decipher legalese to figure out their trust paperwork. Not the person who had to figure out how to deal with their bonds, or transferring their accounts into the trust…or how to move all her volunteer work to other volunteers. I’m still me. I’m still part of the family, I’m not just a personal assistant or representative or paid caregiver. I want to be acknowledged, I want to be noticed, I want to be appreciated for the things I’m trying to do to take care of things. No, I want to be noticed and appreciated, period.

I’m tired. I can’t take a break because there’s no one else to do these things. They won’t let me hire someone to help them. And honestly, even if they did, they’d probably want me to be there to supervise them, like with the cleaning people. I’m not able to do as much at my own home as I used to. Laundry falls behind. The dogs get left at home more and more…I don’t see Hub as much. The dishes stack up in the sink or sit in the dishwasher. Things that need to get done are not getting done at all. I feel lost, like I’m losing who I am. And I feel absolutely horrible about feeling that way because I love my parents and I want to do everything I can to help them. I didn’t know this would be so hard. I’m terrified because I know this is only going to get harder as Mom gets sicker. She’s lucid, though she has trouble hearing and remembering things right now. But in truth, this isn’t the mother I remember, even in the last couple of years that she’s been fighting with this. She’s unhappy. She’s moody. She’s short with her temper. She acts like a petulant child. She complains that no one does anything right. I know she’s sick. I know this is incredibly difficult for her. Which is all the more reason why I feel horrible for feeling the way I do.

I try really hard not to be short with her, and I try to do things the way she wants–generally asking specifically what she wants and encouraging her to tell me how she wants it done. She’ll tell me it’s fine, then complain when it isn’t done to her standards or satisfaction. As soon as I walk into the house she starts complaining…about my father, about something that happened or didn’t, about the doctor, the pills, the cleaning people, the phone calls, the crochet, the television…whatever is sitting on her mind. She doesn’t even say hello or ask how I am. She almost always asks about Hub–who we all claim is her favorite child–but she doesn’t often ask about me. That’s another reason why I feel like I’m invisible. If I limp because of my plantar fasciitis, she might see it and say “why are you walking like that” but that’ll be it. Most times she won’t even notice.

I know that’s my mother still in there. I don’t think she knows that I’m still in here.

 

 

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Fraudulent

These days, I feel like a fraud, a lot.

My name is on a lot of paperwork. My responsibilities grow every day, extending to things I have no comprehension about. I spent at least two evenings researching legal terms to try to understand the trust that my parents’ lawyer put together for them. I have spent many hours pouring over the legal documents–alone, with my mother, with my brother–trying to figure out what the trust is actually saying. To find out if it is done the way my parents want it done. To find out what the future will look like when one or the other, and then both, have died. There are complications that make the trust not quite so simple. But then again, it’s all legal mumbo-jumbo, so there’s nothing simple about it.

I’ve had to sit in on a meeting with the lawyer as he explained the trust, then had my parents’ sign the paperwork. I’ve had to take copious notes on things I do not understand in order to repeat the information to my siblings. I’ve had to chase the lawyer, then return a phone call to the lawyer, then listen as he explains things again while I try to take MORE notes to explain things to my siblings AND my parents. I’ve been mid-way into making dinner when I’ve been called on the phone and summoned to my parents’ house to explain parts of the trust that I have no understanding of.

I’ve had to fill out paperwork to get bonds reissued. I’ve had to fill out online accounts to get online bond accounts created. I’ve had to fill out paperwork to get bank accounts changed over into the trust.

I don’t know how to do any of this stuff. I’ve researched and bluffed my way through. I’ve walked away from meetings, conversations, phone calls, summonses, feeling like a complete and utter fraud. I don’t have the answers. I don’t understand the terminology. I don’t remember–or know–why things were done the way they were done. And yet, all of this has been asked of me. And yet, I’ve answered the call to do everything they’ve asked of me…and I feel like a fraud.

My mother is making plans to take a trip overseas this summer. She’s buying tickets, making reservations, looking into itineraries…for a trip that even IF she is still alive, she will likely be too weak and too ill to take. I listen to her talk about the trip, and I keep my big mouth shut. I know she needs this. I know she needs something to look forward to and something to concentrate on. And every minute she talks about the trip, my heart breaks a little more. I won’t stop her from making the plans–even if she ends up losing money over it–and I won’t tell her she won’t be able to make the trip. I won’t tell her how much it hurts for me to watch her make the plans, knowing in my heart that she’ll never be able to follow through on them. And I feel like a fraud.

My whole body hurts. My knees are popping with every step the last couple of days. The back of one knee hurts. The back of one thigh hurts. My back hurts. My hips hurts. My shoulders hurt. My arms hurt. I limp my way to Mom’s house–there and back–feeling so tired and so painful. Yet when I’m in their house, I hide the limp and I hide the pain and I hide the fatigue. It’s all a lie. When Mom asks, I’ll tell her I’m “tired” but it’s nothing new. I have trouble standing because my feet hurt from the plantar fasciitis, but I stand anyway…I walk anyway. I don’t tell them. If I told them, they’d be upset and they’d tell me to go home or stay home. But things still need to be done and unfortunately, I’m the one around to do it.

I had a doctor’s appointment this morning. My mother scheduled an eye appointment without realizing I had an appointment of my own, so they went without me. On the way home, they were supposed to stop at the bank to get some papers notarized and others that needed a bank’s seal. I had all the paperwork marked with notes as to what needed what, with “sign here” post-its and post-its showing which needed notarization and which needed the bank’s seal. They called from the bank, saying they didn’t know what they needed to have done. I had gone over all of it with Mom, and everything was marked with post-its and notes. And they were confused. The bank rep was not helpful either, arguing with them over what had to be done, confusing them more. Upsetting them. They came home without getting anything done. I have to go back with them tomorrow.

I chase the lawyer, who isn’t terribly responsive most of the time. I chase the insurance agent. I chase the investment advisor. I chase the doctors, I make–and cancel–appointments. I keep the calendar. I watch the mail and the email. I make and print the pill schedules. I schedule and oversee the cleaning crew. Hub and I even buy groceries. A lot of these things are even more stressful for me because I don’t like to do them. I don’t like making phone calls and asking questions. I don’t like talking to people that I don’t really know. I don’t like calling doctors’ offices. I don’t like taking responsibility for things that are uncomfortable or outside my bailiwick.

I know I’m not irreplaceable. I know someone else could help them. But right now, there’s no one else to do all these things but me. And these things need to be done sooner rather than later. Sooner, before Mom gets sick again and can’t…do things.

I do the things that need to be done. But underneath it all, I feel like I’m bumbling my way through. I feel like I’m bluffing and guessing…and kind of hoping for the best. I’m pushing myself to do things I dislike–with much distress–because they have to be done and no one else is doing it.

I feel like a big, fat, fraud. I know it’s in my head, it’s only me and no one else expects me to do everything the way I’m doing it. And I’m not doing everything alone. My brothers are doing the things I’m asking them to do. But I’m still coordinating it all. I’m asking them to do things. I’m making sure they’re getting done. I’m still at the center of things getting done. And I’m not good at doing that AND I don’t like to have to do it…so it’s another case of feeling like I am a fraud.

It’s difficult to be stepping in on my parents’ lives like this. Things that in the past they would have done on their own without question, they can no longer handle them. I’m the youngest of my siblings, so it’s strange for me to to feel like I’m the responsible one among my parents AND my siblings. This is a tough road to be on. I hope I can continue to do what needs to be done and not beat myself up too much over the way I’m doing it.

 

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I’m cheating on my therapist (part 2)

You might want to read part 1 first. It’s kinda long…

Session number four (at least of the “active” sessions) started out with V talking to me about being bullied again. But this time, it was my grandmother that we were discussing. During my very first conversation with V, we were talking about those “resource” people and V was asking me about extended family like aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. I told her that I loved my grandmother very much, and that she was a big part of our lives growing up and into my adulthood. But that I had some mixed feelings about her, because she was always harping on my weight.

And like some weird television show, I had one of those epiphany moments. I realized very clearly how abusive my grandmother had been to me all my growing up years. How much she had damaged me, hurt me, bullied me, abused me. There was no physical abuse. She loved me. But she hurt me so much.

She compared me to people around us, other girls, other women. She told me I’d never be happy if I didn’t lose weight. She told me that I wouldn’t get a husband if I didn’t lose weight. She took me to her aerobics class as often as she could (very often in the summer when I was out of school), where I was forced into working out with other women of all shapes and sizes. Then she pointed out how I couldn’t keep up with this woman or that woman. She compared me to her (younger) friend’s daughter, a girl who was two years ahead of me in school. Pointed out how slender and in-shape that girl was, how smart she was, how happy she was.

She watched what I ate when we were together. She pointed out what I shouldn’t be eating. She encouraged me to deprive myself, and to eat only the things she gave me. She chastised me when I ate too much, or pointed me away from the cookies or the cake that she had baked for others in the family.

I was the only girl in my family, the youngest of four. I was also the only one of the kids who was overweight. I snuck food because I felt deprived of the food. Oh don’t get me wrong, my mother was watching me, because she, too, was unhappy that I was overweight. But she was more subtle about what she did and said. And she didn’t do the overt comparisons that my grandmother employed.

I went to fat camp, subsidized by my grandparents, because I know my parents couldn’t have afforded it at that time. It was a spectacular failure. I might have lost five or ten pounds at the time–the diet was very restricted and the activities were very forced on us–and I gained it all back very quickly…and then some, I’m sure. And my grandmother pointed it out, reminded me how hard I worked at the camp, and how I was letting it all go to waste.

I loved my grandmother very much. She loved me. She had her own weight issues, her own body image issues…I know this affected her and how she treated me. I know it affected her and affected my mother as well. That doesn’t mean what she did to me all those years wasn’t painful and damaging. As an adult, I understand where it came from for her. I’m working hard to separate her as the woman who loved me from her terrible behaviors toward me. I’m trying to remember that I’m NOT damaged. I am whole and I am okay.

My grandmother is only part of the reason that I never feel like I’m enough. Good enough. A good enough daughter. A good enough sister. A good enough wife. A good enough friend. I work ultra-hard, go the extra mile, do all the little things and the big things…and yet even when people are appreciative, I worry that it wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t enough.

My mother had three boys. All she wanted at that point was a little girl. A daughter, who she could dress in lace and ruffles, who would wear sweet pink dresses and play with baby dolls, who would love her tiny tea set and be the epitome of every dainty little girl. I was none of that. I hate lace and ruffles–they made me itch–and I wasn’t overly fond of pink. I hated dresses. I never once picked up a baby doll and I totally ignored the expensive and lovely tea set that I’m told my uncle bought for me at my mother’s urging. I played with the boys’ toys, with the boys themselves as often as I could work my way into their play-time, and I wore pants and tee shirts. And I was far from the dainty little girl she had hoped for. Very very often, my mother would speak of me, and then tell people all those things…I waited so long for a baby girl, I wanted to dress her in lace and ruffles, I wanted to see her play with baby dolls and tea sets. She never wanted any of those things… Over and over my mother would tell people of my failures. My mother loves me and I love her. If you read any of my blog posts, you can’t miss that. We’re amazing friends. I’m in awe of her. I’m deathly afraid of the day I will lose her. AND she made me feel like I wasn’t enough while I was growing up. I wasn’t who she had expected me to be.

I try so hard to be enough. I’ve been bullied and abused and put down for who I was. I only ever wanted to be loved.

As we were talking about my grandmother–and in part about my mom–V asked me to picture myself as a child. I could immediately remember my little bedroom. The walls were painted a pepto bismal pink, my white iron daybed mattress covered in strawberry shortcake sheets (which were in part pink), the white dressers and desk that had once belonged to my mother, the deep cranberry wool carpeting that my grandparents had passed down to me from a previous house. The full length mirror on the back of my door. The tiny little black and white television on my dresser, under the shelves that held the dolls my grandparents brought for me from every trip they took out of the country (I had never asked for dolls, they just bought them for me). The window air conditioner an uncle gave us for my bedroom. V asked me what that little girl was thinking, and I blurted out she just wants to be loved….she doesn’t want to be alone.

In previous sessions with T, I didn’t really understand talking to the little girl that I used to be. I’m not sure why this time it was more accessible. Maybe because of the revelations I had about my grandmother and my mother. The thing is, I don’t know how to make it better for that little girl. I was alone. I felt unloved. I’m not alone as an adult. I have a wonderful relationship with my mother, I have a good relationship with my father and my brothers. My husband loves me very much. I have a very good friend whom I’ve known since second grade. And yet I still feel not good enough. I just want to feel good enough.

I don’t know what’s going to come next. I was supposed to see V again next week but I’ve canceled the appointment due to my mother’s health. That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about all of this when I have free brain time, but I’ve been pretty occupied with my mother’s appointments, her care, and taking care of her personal and business issues. I have another appointment scheduled with V in a couple of weeks. If I can manage the appointment, I will. In the meantime, I’m still seeing T, so maybe I’ll be able to address some of these thoughts with her. We’ll have to see how it goes, considering everything else happening at the moment.

 

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