Memories 2

On edge and freaking. So gonna try write some of this.

Someone was telling me about her mother. And I replied some stuff about mine. And I feel like I’ve opened something too big. And now that I’ve said this it’s gone and not true. I wonder if I should cut off or let myself freak out.

My mother did her best. So I feel guilty ever saying anything about her. And she loved me. She loves us. Even if her love is tangled up with love for herself because she can’t truly love her kids for her kids because we are a reflection of her and if we aren’t what she thinks we should be it’s a reflection of her badness that caused it.

Recently I was talking to my mother and told her a story, being this may be public not giving details for too many people know this story. I told her how for the year after I’d asked her to change something. And she never listened. She told me she didn’t know. Then asked why I didn’t go to my father. It hadn’t been an option for me as I never spoke to him. I was trapped somewhere I hated for a year because of this story and because she never listened.

She did know. My entire family knew. What was eye opening and shocking to me was that she told me she had been through a really similar story – accused of something specific without knowing until years later what the accusation even was of, the same accusation levelled against me. She was hurt so much by it and never told anyone. You would think,I would have thought, that when the same accusation is levelled against your daughter, in the same setting, you’d do something. Yet she didn’t. She couldn’t.

My mother never could handle our pain. If we were in pain it was a reflection on her. And she can’t handle sadness. She’s beginning to now. She couldn’t. So if I ever went to her with a complaint. It wasn’t. It just wasn’t. It didn’t exist. What I thought or felt wasn’t true.

What actually baffles me is why I’m hurt more by my mother than my father. I grew up with a father who any time I complained about anything always said it was me being sensitive. That taught me to doubt myself and my thoughts a lot more than my mother did because I always knew my mother wasn’t healthy. I’d complain about my mother to my father.

I don’t know the point in writing this coz there’s so much I’ve said so many times and it’s not like saying it changes anything.

So my mother taught me not to feel and trust myself. My father taught me not to trust myself. Beginning. End.

There are some things E has told (emailed) me that I’ll always remember. It was so eye opening to me. She said that when she’s bathing a kid and they say the water is too hot she’d add cold water… I’ve told her a few times how much she taught me with that. She gave other examples. I was flabbergasted. What do you mean you’d listen? You know it’s not too hot so you’d say it’s not, or you’d tell them they’re too sensitive. (My mother, or father).

She told me she would never go into a childs room until they told her to come in. My mother STILL would walk into my room when I haven’t replied or say please don’t cone in. Recently I’ve taken to locking my door again when I’m in my room, not always though I should, for that reason. If it’s not locked I don’t know that she won’t walk in. She hovered my floor recently (or her cleaner did) when I’d told her not to. I was really upset. No I’m not going to lock my door when I’m not in my room.

E taught me so much about respecting boundaries and listening to children that I had always thought was my fault for wanting it. Because I was too sensitive. Or it wasn’t.

Someone actually asked me today where the shame and guilt I live with comes from. The inherent shame comes from this. Not the guilt. The shame. That I’m inherently wrong.

I guess it also comes from not being who my parents want. There’s no way I can be who they want. If my father knew who I was he’d be so hurt. If he knew what I did. The livings lie. Living a facade. That I have to.

The guilt for living. Knowing I’m hurting others just by living. But that’s really a different point entirely.

And there’s nothing to say. I can write for hours and it doesn’t change what was. I feel guilty for caring. Because my parents loved me. My father did and does. My mother’s is not as real coz it’s all about her. It’s about her needs and wants. Not me. I’ve so many happy memories. Caring is wrong. Knowing what wasn’t okay is wrong because there was so much good.

Gonna leave it here.


I tend not to post for others to see – most my posts are just for myself, and even when I could post them I feel wrong to. I’m wondering whether I’ll post this publicly. I guess we’ll see.

I just saw this image and quote and it brings up a LOT of thoughts that I want to try and put down. I’m laughing in my head writing this coz I imagine I’ll only write a sentence or two. But I guess will see.

I was thinking recently about my sis. How, however much I’ve talked about her, it doesn’t change my reality. I know that when I was about 9 she would say she wanted to die, how she was going to, it was our fault coz we didn’t love her, and we were gonna go to hell.

I understand why she felt that way. I understand why the 9 year old E would feel guilty. I understand it all. It doesn’t, however, change the guilt I live with. Understanding where it comes from doesn’t make me not guilty for living.

I was actually realising about that, remembering when I once wrote about how I overreacted to something minor, completely freaked out, because I was hearing all she said then, now.

I know that my mother doesn’t have the emotional ability to feel all her emotions. I feel guilty writing this because over the last few years she’s been changing a lot. She doesn’t have the capacity to hold emotions. Didn’t have the capacity. Therefore invalidated everything we said. If we felt sad, we didn’t. It was things, facts, too. Anything we’d say, wasn’t. It was never intentional. I was seeing it recently with my special needs sister. She told my mother she was hungry, and my mother said you’re not. My mother wasn’t trying to say you aren’t hungry. She was trying to say I’ve not yet thought of what to make for supper and feel bad when you tell me you’re hungry because I don’t know what to make and haven’t had time to see to it yet. Which instead she said with you’re not. (By the way, we grew up with hot supper on the table when we came home from school at around 4. I’m putting this in because my mother was, and is, a good person. Yes she was critical, had very little sense of self, anything her kids do are about her, cannot regulate or handle emotions. She also waved us goodbye every single morning. Had supper on the table when we came home. I’ve loads of happy family memories, especially summer holidays. My memories of my childhood are mostly those times – though anything not happy is kind of images or knowledge that I don’t really know).

Seeing, and understanding, the what and the why, doesn’t change the fact that I don’t believe what I think. That I don’t feel safe to feel. That it isn’t safe to feel.

Growing up any time I’d complain to my father about anything, maybe not every time, maybe most times. Actually probably every time. He would tell me I was just being sensitive. My father is someone I trusted, I still trust. He’s a really good person. He genuinely believed I was just being ‘sensitive’. That catch all phrase.

The reason I say probably always, because still today that’s what he says. Except as an adult whose thoughts he respects I can actually explain to him how anything I’m saying is valid and is not just about me being ‘sensitive’.

Understanding it doesn’t change the confusion and shame.

There was a lot of denial in my house. Things that were, just weren’t. That taught pretty much all of us not to trust ourselves. Because what we knew wasn’t true. There was a lot of secrecy. That’s mostly generational. Things that today wouldn’t be kept secret. Understanding it doesn’t change the shame it engenders.

That quote above was interesting. Changing the memories. How do you do that? How do you actually change the memories? And what about when it’s not really memories, but a narrative, a fact, life.

It makes me think also of the non memories I have. The half formed images in my mind that I don’t really know what happened, if anything even did. There are 2 images that I wonder about.

I’ve a vague memory of being in the playground and my class running after me. Something doesn’t add up because I’ve no idea when this could have happened. Weren’t teachers always outside? I know I was hurt because everyone including my supposed best friend joined in.

I’ve a vague image of my sister rescuing me from someone a few years older than me. I can see the location in my mind (side of school building as it used to be). I can’t see her or the other. I know I must have been between 5 and 10 – because my sister was in school. I have no idea what happened. I actually only know this person really did bully me because recently at a family meal then the surname came up, and my mother asked didn’t so and so tease/bully E. Or something like that. I didn’t reply. I’ve no memories of her bullying me. Though now, I kinda feel like she did, and feel like she ganged some of my classmates against me, and I’ve no idea why I think that.

That’s all I have to say on this for now…

For now I’m keeping this public and may change my mind.

One of the reasons I rather my posts are private is because people comment. They show up. They deserve the respect and courtesy of a response. And sometimes I don’t have the headspace to reply. Then I feel bad for not replying. Because I want to. And I don’t want them to think I’m ignoring or don’t appreciate what they’ve said.

Dialogue that says nothing

I’ve been thinking about what I want. And I guess coz today I’m okay, today I want help.

I want to want to stop messing up. I want to want to stop ODing constantly.

E, what will happen if you stop taking paracetamol?
It’s not safe to.
It’s not safe to stop ODing?
Because I need it
Why do you need it?
It lets me play with death
What will happen if you stop playing with death?
I’ll have to live in the world
What will happen if you live in  the world?
I don’t know how to.
But E, you lived in the world.
I did. And it wasn’t safe.
So ODing gives you safety?
It gives me the illusion of death, which gives me safety.
Are you ready to live in the world?
But you’re ready to be ready to?
So where do you go from here?
I don’t know.
Where do you want to go?
I want to go both ways. Towards life, and towards death.
Which way are you choosing?
Do I have to choose?
Well, kind of. Yes, you do have to choose. Because if you don’t choose, you ARE choosing.
I want both
I know you want both. You don’t need to give up on either side at the moment. Why do you want life?
I don’t want to hurt others.
E, why do you want life for yourself?
I don’t know that I do.
If there was no one in the world but you, would you choose life or death?
I don’t know.
K. Why do you want death?
Relief. Peace. No need to fight. No need to try.
Why do you want life?
I don’t.
Why don’t you want death?
It’s giving up.
E, are you scared to say that there’s a possibility you could want life?
Yes. Because that’s giving up on death.
Which are you choosing?
How do I make that choice?
E. You don’t need to change your actions. You can choose death and still live. You can choose life and still overdose, and self harm and throw up. But you do need to make a choice. You do need to either choose death and stop trying to get help, or choose life and figure out how you’ll get there.
I chose life so many times and it didn’t get me anywhere.
I know. You tried to stop so many times and you chose life, and you didn’t have the help to make it possible.
I’m just tired.
I know you are tired. That’s normal. And okay.
I don’t know what I want.
It’s not about what you want. It’s which choice you’re making.
I’m scared to say that I choose life.
Do you choose death?
So you’re not choosing death, and you’re not actually choosing life either.
You need to choose.
It’s sorta a choice.
Okay. So which do you want to walk towards?
Making life possible.
How will that be possible?
I don’t know.
What do you need to make it possible to walk towards life?
I don’t know.
What does ‘life’ look like to you?
Being okay. Living life on life’s terms. Not using or ODing. Not self harming. Not living with destruction. Having friends I’m in touch with. Having healthy relationships. Knowing where I’m heading. Studying. Living in my own apartment. Dating. Not wanting to be dead. Living life.
That sounds good E. How will you get there?
I don’t know.
What needs to happen for you to get there?
I need to be okay within myself and within the world. I need to be able to handle whatever happens, whatever I feel. I need to actually know what I feel. And feel altogether.
What needs to happen for you to get there?
Live in the world without destruction. Which isn’t possible.
What would make living without destruction possible?
I don’t really know.
I guess learning how to live and be okay in the world. Enough support.
What does enough support look like?
Kinda nearly 24/7.
Is that what you want?
I want to want it.
What do you want right now?
To stop fighting.
To stop fighting what?
I want the battle in my head to be silent. I want to stop living trapped. I feel like I’m trapped between life and death, trying to give both sides a voice, and it makes me so so tired. I want to live without that.
Would therapy help?
I don’t know. I process most things on my own. It could help by giving a safe space. If it’s safe that is. But. But it wouldn’t help me to stop living with both.
Why not?
Coz it’s not enough. Coz speaking to someone once a week isn’t enough. And won’t make it okay.
What about twice a week?
Also not enough.
Would therapy help in the future?
Yes. If it was more than once a week, and if I could do it with writing, and if we could be in touch in between. But. I don’t know. Coz it’d probably take me a year to trust someone, and by the time I build a relationship with them, it’s over.
Olay. Forget about  that E. Are you ready to do what it takes to get to another side?
I’m ready to be ready to. I don’t know. Depends what it involves. But I’m ready to work towards getting there. Like. I know I have to stop ODing. I’m not ready to. I’m ready to make it possible to stop.
What would make it possible to stop?
Enough support. Not needing it.
Thanks for your honesty.