I have this vivid memory of gardening with my mother.
I was wandering around outside and my mom handed me gloves. "You can dig up weeds." I protested, because that sounded terrible. "Do it. I am making you."
So, I had no choice. I was my mother's puppet. Her little doll. But it was somehow good. The sun on my back. The dirt in my nails. The weeds coming up and thrown into a pile. I felt bad for them. Some of them were pretty. Dandelions with bright yellow faces and curly leaves. Thistles with pale blue stems, so spikey. I felt bad to take them out of the garden. The garden that I would cut flowers for my mom. She would smile and put them in a vase. She knew the species of each flower. She was the caring mom, I the adoring child. We play our roles so well.
So, I am starting a diary. Not sure if this is a good idea. I just finished posting a thread about obsessing with my trauma. I am also procrastinating work stuff I need to do.
That is how procrastination goes. I need to do important stuff, I know, I am going to make a trauma diary!
So, I am obsessed with my therapist. Not a, I want to stalk her obsession, but an intense attachment. I once wrote and shared with her a poem about how I loved the lines in her neck and how I wanted to crawl into those lines.
It is because I have a perfect mother. A perfect, beautiful mother. I once wrote into Oprah to nominate my mother for mother of the year. I used to be obsessed with my mother dieing (afraid that she would).
The problem is that my trauma stories and my perfect mother viewpoint just don't add up.
I have to sit in therapy trying to make sense of when my T says, "Your mother was the original bully."
I just feel a sickness grab hold of me and this perfect world that I built begin to sway like a house built of cards.
I then look at all the details of my T's body as if I were drawing her. The small tattoo on her ankle, the creases in her shirt. I love creases in clothing. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The shape of her ears, like she is some sort human mixed with a mythical creature. I would never tell her this, though! I do tell her that I love her. And she just gives me that neutral, yet soft, yet poignant therapist look. When I read her the poem about wanting to crawl into her she said, "Where was your mother?!"
My mother was always leaving us places. That one old lady who made me jelly toast and taught me how to build card houses.
That one OCD teacher's house where I snapped her aloe vera plant in half. Ohhh she was angry. I was in trouble, but I took in stride. I decided at some point just to be ok with being in trouble. Not to fight it. The belt, the yard stick didn't hurt too bad.
Well, now I am not going to deal with my trauma.
I am trying to figure out how to mother myself at 38 yrs old. This is hard to do as I am in all of this self hate so often.
At least I broke thru my narcissistic false self. I was taught to stuff all problems and emotions deep down and wear a grin!
Now that perfect self is gone and I am this barren wasteland of nothingness and self shittiness. I read that a little bit of narcissism is a good thing. Maybe I am a talented artist and can get into that residency. Blah. I hate being talented. f*ck that. That was all I was ever good for. My mother used it, owned it. Now I am trying desparately to reclaim my love for art. But I am a cheat. I am a fraud.
I was wandering around outside and my mom handed me gloves. "You can dig up weeds." I protested, because that sounded terrible. "Do it. I am making you."
So, I had no choice. I was my mother's puppet. Her little doll. But it was somehow good. The sun on my back. The dirt in my nails. The weeds coming up and thrown into a pile. I felt bad for them. Some of them were pretty. Dandelions with bright yellow faces and curly leaves. Thistles with pale blue stems, so spikey. I felt bad to take them out of the garden. The garden that I would cut flowers for my mom. She would smile and put them in a vase. She knew the species of each flower. She was the caring mom, I the adoring child. We play our roles so well.
So, I am starting a diary. Not sure if this is a good idea. I just finished posting a thread about obsessing with my trauma. I am also procrastinating work stuff I need to do.
That is how procrastination goes. I need to do important stuff, I know, I am going to make a trauma diary!
So, I am obsessed with my therapist. Not a, I want to stalk her obsession, but an intense attachment. I once wrote and shared with her a poem about how I loved the lines in her neck and how I wanted to crawl into those lines.
It is because I have a perfect mother. A perfect, beautiful mother. I once wrote into Oprah to nominate my mother for mother of the year. I used to be obsessed with my mother dieing (afraid that she would).
The problem is that my trauma stories and my perfect mother viewpoint just don't add up.
I have to sit in therapy trying to make sense of when my T says, "Your mother was the original bully."
I just feel a sickness grab hold of me and this perfect world that I built begin to sway like a house built of cards.
I then look at all the details of my T's body as if I were drawing her. The small tattoo on her ankle, the creases in her shirt. I love creases in clothing. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The shape of her ears, like she is some sort human mixed with a mythical creature. I would never tell her this, though! I do tell her that I love her. And she just gives me that neutral, yet soft, yet poignant therapist look. When I read her the poem about wanting to crawl into her she said, "Where was your mother?!"
My mother was always leaving us places. That one old lady who made me jelly toast and taught me how to build card houses.
That one OCD teacher's house where I snapped her aloe vera plant in half. Ohhh she was angry. I was in trouble, but I took in stride. I decided at some point just to be ok with being in trouble. Not to fight it. The belt, the yard stick didn't hurt too bad.
Well, now I am not going to deal with my trauma.
I am trying to figure out how to mother myself at 38 yrs old. This is hard to do as I am in all of this self hate so often.
At least I broke thru my narcissistic false self. I was taught to stuff all problems and emotions deep down and wear a grin!
Now that perfect self is gone and I am this barren wasteland of nothingness and self shittiness. I read that a little bit of narcissism is a good thing. Maybe I am a talented artist and can get into that residency. Blah. I hate being talented. f*ck that. That was all I was ever good for. My mother used it, owned it. Now I am trying desparately to reclaim my love for art. But I am a cheat. I am a fraud.