Mother of Mine

Mother of mine…

I don’t believe you when you tell me I’ve ruined your life.

Now you spend your time in agonizing pain.

Physically wrecked, spiritually void, emotionally spilled, psychologically killed.

It amazes me how you honestly believe there’s something that can fix you, a pill, a new doctor, a bottle perhaps?

Look at yourself.

You walk like a 90-year-old when you are barely 60.

‘Barely there is what I see.’

I quietly take the blame for your lack of life.

I hang on to the guilt that you cannot really live a life.

You worked all of your life so you could give everything to me.

Only to make up for my fatherless existence.

Well, look at you now.  You’re a shell of a woman.

When I look at you I cry,

When I hear your voice I feel helpless to fix you,

The fear of becoming  like you consumes me.

Please don’t let me end up like her.

Please let her go in peace.

And when she departs, may my anger depart with her.

I want it to leave with her , as a reminder of my hell.

This hell on earth I have endured all in the name of being your daughter.

I do love you though, mom.

Sinister

My desire to keep me an observer of life has actually kept me from living one.

So what’s going on here?

Is there something wrong with me?

So innate, So deep.

Was I born this way? Or am I the product of a wound?

I am sullen I know for sure.

The tears come without warning.

He told me last night there was no way I’d ever make it through law school.

I believe he is right.

Possibly he was just rattled because I spent money we don’t have and I drank a bottle of wine.

Whatever makes us feel better I guess. My actions, his words. Sometimes the opposite.

Sitting at work at 9am, drinking coffee, reading a book about the trials and ineptness of left-handed people.

I don’t want to be at home; he’s doing that thing again where he’s overworked, stressed and irritable.

I am feeling my dependency. When I speak as if I am reaching for something in thin air, he seems indifferent.

The last time this happened, I found myself seeking solace in another place, a human place, to be honest.

I don’t plan to stumble upon that again, but what’s going on here is far too similar.

My head aches, the pain is too much.

The pressure of  wanting to get away in any and every way possible.

What am I missing?

Am I lazy? Am I  just sad? Suicidal again? All of the above?

I know I can produce more than this, I know I am capable.

How do I perpetuate my passion into action?

I feel like such a  burden to my family.

My self-indulgent gloom must be a heavy wight on more than just myself.

I want to write a book. This may be part of it one day.

There’s already a book, not to mention a song, called “She’s Come Undone,”

I’m staring right at it.  I’ve read it before…one of my favorites.

I was going to reread it being how it fits my present demeanor, until I was handed this book, “Lefties, AKA Sinister”  book from Nina.

Seriously, that’s the Latin root word for being left handed…SINISTER.

I must be oblivious to my own self destruction.

Tightrope

Why do I remember the darkest of days when darkness implies hard to find or hard to see?

I do not want the light to find me, because what if it takes away the essence of me, what makes me?

Walking a thin line I look down to see I am up so high.

Fear covers me and I close my eyes tight as if I won’t be there anymore.

What a strange thing to do; close your eyes when you’re
walking on a tight rope suspended in air.

I stand paralyzed and look down. I look to my right and to my left.

The devil is with me. He sees that I recognize him. He doesn’t care that I’m petrified for my very existence one more time.

It’s just another day at the office for him. Or is it night? I’ve lost track of days. There is no routine; only the rituals of the devil and his slave.

The pull to numb the pain is the greatest, strongest emotion I have ever felt.

But the anguish and the need to run away are even stronger.

As my mind races ahead of my body, I am unable to move. My fear reminds me of the tightrope I am perched upon.

I panic.

I can’t feel myself anymore.

I let myself fall.

Inside Outside

I appear normal to the average person. Although at the same time, if anyone could hear what was happening inside my head,
they would for sure deem me as crazy. I am fat. I am gross. My stomach is big and squishy. I look pregnant. I hate that I have
no self-control when it comes to food. I eat healthy all day, and then at night I drink wine and eat until I go to bed. I need the wine
to relax me, but it impairs my judgment and stimulates my appetite. I feel horrible the next day. I feel horrible now. I ate three
bowls of cereal last night after my two glasses of wine. One after the other. I knew I would feel ugly this morning, but when I am
robotically moving the spoon back and forth between my mouth and the bowl, I care of nothing but that moment, the giving in to
my sickness, the momentary justification that I can eat whatever I want because I can, because I’m really not as fat as I feel.
Not compared to other people. People cannot really see under my shirt. They don’t know how gross I am. They don’t know
how ugly I tell myself I am when I look in the mirror, when I feel my fat, when I look down and the only thing I see is my tummy
sticking out farther than it should from my shirt. Today is definitely a loose shirt day at work. You know I made it all day at work
without cramming a cupcake in my mouth. I even left there last night without taking a cookie. I was craving sugar all evening.
This is a huge indicator when I begin obsessing. I can’t rid it from my head. It’s right there in the front overpowering every other
thought. I should’ve known I would blow it when I got home. Why do I have to keep that shit in the house. No cookies. No cake.
No sugar cereal. I’ll eat it all in one night. I cannot overlook it.
When I am serving customers at work, I look at them while they are standing there, drooling over what cupcakes they should
buy, intent as though this were the most important decision they will ever make, I stare at them and wonder how they can be
comfortable being however overweight they are. I imagine what they look like without their shirt. How can they have sex? Aren’t they
embarrassed? The skinny girls. How can eat these cupcakes. I guess they have a fast metabolism and it doesn’t affect them.
It’s not healthy though. They shouldn’t be eating them! I stare in envy, in awe that people don’t care about this. That these
people are oblivious to the horror that goes on in my head every moment. I want to be free of it. I want to eat cupcakes and not
feel ruined. I want to live and not feel overwhelmed and robbed of any joy that may be waiting for me. I deserve to not have to
feel this, but I don’t know how. I feel disgusting. I actually scrubbed myself extra hard in the shower as if I could get rid of this
feeling. As if I could change who I am, what I’ve let happen to myself. I am going to super supplements today before work to try
and find an appetite suppressant. I know they don’t really work. I can’t afford it, but I need something. It’s psychological. I need
anything to stop me from eating. Anything. I’ll do anything. I am so uncomfortable in my own skin right now. My clothes don’t fit. I
am hungry. This is unbearable. This is unacceptable. I am unacceptable.

Breaking the Circle to Break the Cycle.

There is a place in which my mother and I cannot coexist. It resembles a circle. The space inside that circle is mine, I fill it up. And when she steps outside of her boundary, she enters my circle causing parts of me to spill out.  I had to learn that I am whole all by myself, and am still learning that is sufficient.

When I am sick, either emotionally or physically, she knows I need her. She has a need, conscious or not, to keep me sick. It is more important to her that I stay close than stay healthy.

I have for the first time in my 37 years of life distanced myself both in physical space and time, to actually see the line I cannot cross again. Before, I was either ambiguous with my decision to draw the line, or when I did draw it, adamantly even, I went right back.
As my mind has cleared, so has that line. The desire for pills has left me, which she so conveniently supplied me with, as has the need to remain sick for my mother.

My mother possesses a special radar for my moods. She can hone in on my depression like a pigeon on bread crumbs at the park. I could always sense her tone of satisfaction knowing she could rest easy because I was all hers as long as I was ‘not well.’

Part of me felt secure when I ran to her arms for comfort, for the attention I craved. But I always knew it was a toxic web to enter.

Lesson learned.

I like my circle.

It belongs to me.

I can breathe here.