I did not write yesterday and I don't know that I really care. (For those of you keeping up with me via Blogger, I actually have written every day, but I haven't posted a few here because it reveals too much about my life and I can't have that shit on a page operated by Google.) I had the longest, roughest, most racist days of my life. Actually, it wasn't even that bad, but HOW LONG DO WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT UNDERCUTTING THE FOUNDATION AND NO, I ACTUALLY DON'T NEED TO COME TO THE FOUNDATION POUR BECAUSE DO YOU KNOW WHAT AS LONG AS THE FOUNDATION HAS AT LEAST 3% FLY ASH I DON'T GIVE A FUCK.
Then I had lunch with Rob at Panera in Evanston which was disappointingly hilarious because everything that I hate about Panera is epitomized by Evanston itself. So it was like a microcosm inside of a microcosm inside of an asiago bread bowl. Evanston thinks they have culture because you can get bubble tea there.
"...and then we can all go get matching North Face fleeces!"
Like I can really talk, I guess, but still.
Because know what? I joined that gym and they have a sushi bar and WiFi and coat check and lockers by California Closets for to keep my Banana Republic so fresh and clean!
Speaking of Banana Republic, I don't know what my dry cleaner does to my shirts to get them SO CLEAN, but I can only imagine that they go to Banana and just buy me more shirts.
After today I will not see my boss again until after Thanksgiving. Speaking of Thanksgiving, my brother and his family are coming. I have a niece and two nephews. I have only seen my one Nephew, Aidan, the one time. I haven't seen my brother or spoken to him in almost two years. Before that, I don't know if I'd seen him since before he went to Iraq. If you asked me whether or not I even love him, I'd be hard pressed to find an answer. I don't worry about him, I don't think about him, and it's not like I'm actively angry at him because I'm pretty sure I'm mostly 'over' or 'past' my abuse issues, but he adds nothing to my life.
I don't want a relationship with him, and we are far beyond the point where our kids might be raise together, you know, seeing as how when I start having kids his oldest will be in college (this should strike you as odd because my older brother isn't even three years older than me). Further, there's no way I'm letting him near my children, at least not without constant supervision. I don't really think there's a chance my brother would hurt my children, but if something were to happen as a result of my non-vigilance, I would not be able to live with myself.
Anyhow, despite the fact that I don’t care too much for my brother nor do I care for his wife, I still feel this nagging obligation to my niece and nephews. I don’t want them to think that I dislike them or simply don’t care about them (to be honest, it’s difficult to feel much more than indifference, though that has nothing to do with them directly), but it’s hard to maintain a relationship with them. Also, my sister and law has no idea why I don’t speak to my brother and I’ve decided it’s not my place to say so. So if she’s ever like ‘Hurr why is M******* such a cold and distant bitch?’, well I’m perfectly content to let my brother make up some answer about whatever, or just tell the truth and he can deal with the repercussions from there.
THE POINT is that I sort of wanted to start being more a part of my niece’s and nephews’ lives, and you know, buy them things (material possessions are VERY important when you’re trying to convey your love for someone). When I was at the Art Institute with Rex last month, I mentioned maybe buying a set of Hokusai postcards and sending them to my niece and having her write to me on them as a way of saying ‘This is a gift that is important because it expresses my interest in you and your life, and exposes us to one another,’ but Rex told me that I ‘can’t assign people work to do and expect that they’ll do it’.
Granted, Rex was being a total dickweed that weekend, but it made me want to just sit on the floor and cry because it was like he was saying, “Who the fuck are you to be caring about people and suggesting that they might take time out of their busy eight year old life to keep you up to date on it?” It was extremely frustrating for me because I literally have had to FORCE myself to learn how, exactly, to interact with and care for people because my love for them is rather unclear and often perplexing, but very much existent.
And I bring this all full-circle (actually, not full-circle because I didn’t start out with any of this) by saying that the more I read The Primal Wound, the more I don’t want to face adoption anymore. I want to just turn it off and just…just stop being adopted. I want to cry forever because I’m afraid I can never fix this problem I think I’m at a point where it would be very beneficial for me to get back in to therapy [again!]. I need, need, need to see someone who either a) specializes in adoption or b) is willing to COMPLETELY AND UNCONDITIONALLY ACCEPT the fact that adoption is an ongoing chain of experiences originating from one trauma.
Things stopping me from rushing out and finding a therapist immediately:
I’m still dealing with accident things, the pain is coming back and that’s not a good sign, especially almost three months out, and I’ve taken SO MUCH TIME off of work that it kills me to keep leaving. Not that I love my job and am ripped apart to be separated from the office or anything, but people take note of these things and I’d like to keep my siestas to a minimum in order to keep up appearances. I’m sure there are therapists who offer later hours and maybe weekend appointments, but still. What it comes down to is that it is SO FUCKING FRUSTRATING TO ME TO KEEP HAVING TO PRY APART MY LIFE AND MAKE SPACE FOR THERAPY TO FIX PROBLEMS THAT I DID NOT CREATE AND CAN THIS PLEASE BE OVER. I’m so tired of starting over all the time.
I’m sure insurance won’t be a problem because I happen to have outstanding insurance for which I am ETERNALLY grateful.
I want to find a therapist who is good but whose office isn’t, like, on top of the Ferragamo store. Dr. Jew was mostly good, and I appreciated his flexibility in my desires with medication (and by ‘flexibility’ I mean he didn’t pitch a bitch when I told him I’d stopped taking it a month prior), but we weren’t on par, really. I always felt like I was trying to prove myself to him and I mean, I try to prove myself to everybody, but it was the fact that I was always trying to prove myself to him and he didn’t try to make me fix that about myself.
The next thing is a bit…patchy. I feel like I’d probably work better with a male therapist because I relate quite well to males. My office is all men (with the exception of Rebecca) and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Further, I think if I were to work with a woman, especially and older one, I’d start projecting all these feelings on to her and start hating her and getting just pissed off at her which would certainly not help anything. THEN AGAIN, it might help me to face more things and I might not spend so much time trying to prove that I’m her equal (whereas I might do that with a male).
There’s also this part of me that’s like ‘Well why even bother with therapy if you’ve resigned this to being an irresolvable issue?’ which makes me wonder if I really want to change or if I’m just sure that this isn’t going to get fixed. The questions are:
Would therapy be pointless because I can’t fix this ever?
Even if I can’t completely fix this, can I make it better? Ease the pain? Gain some peace?
Is this fixable?
I really don’t think it’s completely fixable and it’s kind of like if you get your arm ripped off and they put it back on but it’s really never the same and never works quite right and my life is sort of like a dead appendage, there for appearances and to make my shirts fit better.
That last part is actually not true, but I think it pokes fun at my sadness and I like to be shockingly morbid every now and again. See? Just look at how shocked you are.
But the increase in drinking (and I’d really like to clarify that it’s just an increase but I’m not getting retardedly drunk and passing out and letting it get in the way of living my life, it’s just more than I normally do) is of slight concern, particularly because it coincides with the progression of these entries and how far I am in to my book.
The more I face it, the deeper it cuts, the harder it hurts. The more I ignore it, the more Malleigh pulls away, the more she dissociates, the more she pretends she isn’t.
I want my Mommy.
I want my Mommy.