Up, washed, and dressed. Ate breakfast. Didn't go back to bed. These are accomplishments, I remind myself. It wasn't long ago that I was considering soiling myself rather than getting out of bed. No, really, it was that bad. So, I guess I'm making some progress, but it's hard to tell, from moment to moment. I have to look back to see how far I've come. Looking back is hard, even if I'm just looking back a couple of weeks. I may be free of my mother's house, but it still feels as if spending time there infected me, somehow, with its miasma, and I am still working it out of my system. I was only there for six days, but it feels as if all of my past there were concentrated into those days and nights in the deepest cold of winter.
I keep dreaming of her house, of my grandmother's house (which has long-since been sold), of a reality in which I have never met my husband. I keep finding myself back there, trapped, with no way out and nothing to occupy myself. It doesn't matter that my mother is kind to me, now. I remember the screaming and yelling. I remember slamming the door in her face when she wouldn't leave me alone. All I ever wanted was to be left alone, and she never could. If she just would have backed off for a few moments and let me calm down, I wouldn't have broken that mirror. I wouldn't have screamed "I HATE YOU!" with tears streaming, through a futilely locked door that my father had the key for. I wouldn't have gotten spanked. I wouldn't have been terrified of my parents. All they would have had to do is leave me alone when I begged and pleaded.
I don't even remember what I did wrong, in most cases. I remember my father calling me a "smart mouth" for voicing my opinion or dissenting in any way, and that usually led to some kind of punishment. I hated standing in a corner. I was claustrophobic, and paranoid, and I remember I didn't like not being able to see what was happening behind me. Maybe it isn't the worst punishment ever, but to me, it felt like abuse. And if I don't even remember what I did wrong, it didn't teach me anything, did it?
My mother listened in on my phone calls. She rifled through my school stuff and read my diary. She would pull out things I had written and twist my words to make them fit her own paranoid fantasies. I was plotting against her, I was belittling her, I was spreading lies about her. Then, she would tell my father, and he would discipline me. This normally consisted of bare-assed spankings all the way up until my early teens, which I am now sure constitutes sexual abuse.
And then, there were the arguments they had with each other. They would argue loudly until the wee hours of the morning, when I had school the next day. I did my best to cover my ears, but there was also a strange sense of excitement involved. When they fought, it was like watching a violent storm come in. I would listen, sometimes, hoping to hear something that would change everything. Maybe they would finally get divorced. At the time, I mostly sided with my father, because he didn't hurt me as much as my mother did. At least, that's what I thought at the time. We were "buddies." But I knew I would end up staying with my mother if they split up. I didn't care, because as long as they weren't together in the same house, there would be some peace. I didn't care, because I would find somewhere else to go.
When I was ten or eleven, my mother took me to a psychologist. It had nothing to do with helping me, and everything to do with blaming my father for everything. She basically coached me on what to tell the psychologist to make it sound like my father was the sole abuser in the household. Of course, I went off-script. I told him how scared I was of both my parents, especially my mother. In the end, the psychologist asked to see my mother, and recommended that she go on medication. That didn't go over well. She stormed out of the office and threatened to call a lawyer. Her plan had failed. I don't remember what my punishment was for that incident, but it must have been pretty bad.
I used to go to my grandmother's house every Friday evening after school, and spend the night. My parents would pick me up the following Saturday morning. I have a lot of good memories of those Fridays with my grandparents. We would go to Metroparks and walk in the woods, get ice cream, and sometimes even go to the toy store. It was a reprieve from my parents' fighting. As fucked-up as my relationship with my grandmother was, I always trusted her far more than I ever trusted my mother. I told her things I would never tell my mother, to this day. My grandmother didn't judge me or threaten me. She treated me the way she should have treated my mother when she was young, but didn't. Yes, my mother got it from somewhere, and that somewhere was my grandparents. I know she was shamed and beaten and afforded no privacy. I feel for her, now, but I couldn't understand, then. (Oddly, my mother says she always trusted my great-grandmother more than she trusted my grandmother, so perhaps it's generational.)
Flash forward, now, to me staying with my mother as an adult. It was always between things- relationships, attempts at college, or jobs. Every time I would fail at something, I would end up back at my mother's. It was safe there, in terms of food and shelter, but it was anything but safe emotionally. Ah, but at least then, I had some friends in the area, and I could escape to the familiarity of the community college during the day. I never graduated, but that community college became my home. Going to classes gave me purpose. I had some money from financial aid that was mine alone, untouchable by my mother. I had some freedoms. It wasn't so bad, because I knew I had a way out. I always figured out a way to escape. With that in mind, I was able to let the memories, and whatever weird shit my mother pulled while I was there, roll off me. I was, in some ways, stronger for having to deal with her every day. I was also in my 20s and early 30s, still, and hadn't really started to feel "old" yet.
All of these memories are bubbling up like a badly-digested meal. Even if I'm not actually thinking about the specifics of past events, my brain can't seem to buffer the feelings surrounding them with the healing comfort of time. I do feel old, now, and it is terrifying to realize that if something happened to Matt, I would probably be back at my mother's again. If something happened to Matt, I would, in all likelihood, lose the will to live. That scares me, because my life should be more than one person. My life should be my own, and not contingent upon another's. It's not romantic. It's not cute. It's horrifying.
I have suffered, over the last few months, a slow loss of identity. I have gradually stopped doing things that I enjoy because of pain, both emotional and physical. It started before I began my withdrawal from Percocet. The period of withdrawal, followed by a traumatic week steeped in sickly memories, have deepened my depression to the point of suicidal ideation. As I've said before in this journal, I do follow a kind of protocol with those thoughts. I just accept that they're there, and that they can't hurt me, because they are just thoughts. I remind myself of things that are good and stable that I have to live for, and of all the people I would hurt if I took my own life.
But I am so goddamned tired. I've developed high blood pressure, which I believe is mostly a result of emotional stress. (It sure doesn't make a lot of sense that I would lose weight and raise my blood pressure.) Benzos aren't helping. I'm now taking a diuretic, but it doesn't seem to be helping. On top of that, I still have at least one kidney stone, which could just sit there, or start moving at any time. I'm on potassium to try to break it up. My back pain isn't getting any better, despite the injections. I feel like all I do is go to the doctor. I definitely feel older than my years, beginning and ending each day with a handful of pills.
How did I go from being a child to being an old woman in such a short time?
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