Therapy today was rough, and basically kicked my ass. Overall, that’s a good thing. In the grand scheme of things. It’s good for me, and it’s kind of cathartic to get that shit out, and I know further on down the line I’ll have made some real progress and finally be getting over the dumb shit that still plagues me. In the short-term, however, I was pretty miserable and almost took the rest of the day off afterward, instead of going back in to work. But I went back in to work. I’m a trooper, what can I say.
I knew it would be like this. I’m not surprised, it’s not like I thought therapy would be easy and all sunshine and puppies and kittens and rainbows. I knew I was basically looking at spending an hour a week dredging up shit I’ve tried to batten down securely and ignore, an hour a week of rehashing old shit that’s already happened and can’t be changed and somehow nonetheless bothers me deeply, an hour a week crying, basically. But today was particularly hard. The theme today seemed to be people who have managed to fuck me up in some way (ie-be largely responsible for my being a neurotic mess and having shit to freak out about), but who themselves seem to have gotten off scott-free (I guess that’s a benefit of being a narcissist), while I get to deal with this bullshit, this fallout, for goddess knows how long, possibly the rest of my life. We talked about a couple people, but mainly my dad. Here’s the thing that kills me – rationally, logically, I know he’s a shitty person. He is. I could probably put that more nicely, but that’s the truth. On the one hand, he’s probably doing the best he can with what he’s got. On the other hand, either he really isn’t doing the best he can or he really has nothing to work with, because he’s a narcissist and doesn’t understand why he should care about how he affects other people, so why do the best he can as far as others are concerned? He’s definitely doing the best he can as far as he himself is concerned, I can guarantee you that, he’s looking out for number one and number one only, and that’s fucking business as usual. So, logically, rationally, I *know* I shouldn’t care about what he thinks or what he does, and particularly with respect to me. I don’t respect that type of person, I don’t look up to that type of person, I pity that type of person, so I shouldn’t need their…validation or whatever. And yet, as I so brutally had to admit/discover today in therapy, a small part of me still cares, and is still hurt by shit he’s said or done to me, or said or done to my sisters, by the fact that he doesn’t care about me or my sisters or anyone else other than himself(I mean, other than as a potential adoring fan to feed his narcissism). He doesn’t care, he doesn’t give a shit – although he might claim to, but that’s only lipservice to make himself look like a decent nice guy. So why do I have to care?
I mean, I get why: I didn’t have an ideal childhood, in fact I had a pretty wildly shitty and dangerous childhood, and when I’m not depressed and insecure I can admit that I’m pretty awesome to begin with and I’m totally fucking awesome and incredibly well-adjusted when you factor in said childhood and my extremely dysfunctional family. (“Dysfunctional” is putting it way nicely, by the way – “fucked up” is closer to the mark.) So I didn’t have an ideal childhood (although who does?), and I’m upset about that, I’m grieving about that, whatever lingo you want to use. But here’s the thing: I KNOW my childhood sucked donkey balls. I ought to know, I lived through it. Logically, rationally, consciously, I’m SOOOOOO ready to be over this shit, because it’s not going to change. I can’t go back in time and change it, and my parents are never going to change so it’s not like I’m ever going to get any sort of satisfying almost-closure in the future from them, or have a “normal” relationship with them – especially considering that the healthiest (for me) relationship I can have with them is what I have right now, ie-no relationship at all. I get it, I’m resigned to it, it is what it is. Regrettable, but unchangeable. So what the fuck is up, Subconscious, that you can’t get past this shit? Let’s get a move on, already. I don’t know what you’re waiting for, but if it’s not something I can give myself, if it’s some sort of resolution arising from a word or action by my parents, it’s not fucking coming. And that’s abundantly clear, and has been for several years now. So can we please get over it and move on? Jesus Christ on the fucking Cross son of a bitch goddammit. (I love Kathy Griffin’s mom.)
The other douchebag we talked about for a while today was that would-be robber. I mean, I’m sure his/her life sucks on at least some level if s/he’s trying to rob houses. I still don’t understand the mindset that you’re entitled to someone else’s stuff, but whatever. I’m mainly just mad as hell that old robber is probably chilling, going about their day to day with no big worries (relatively, since I’ve already acknowledged his/her life is probably less than ideal). Like, trying to break into my house and rob me? That’s just business as usual. I’m pretty sure they didn’t lose sleep over it, unless it was because they were mad about all that shit they could’ve gotten but didn’t. Me, on the other hand? In a lot of ways, it’s not even about the shit we could have potentially lost – yeah, that would suck, but it was insured, we could’ve replaced it. It would’ve been a pain in the ass and a real downer, but we could’ve replaced it. But to cut through a screen, you have to have something that will cut through a screen – and if it’ll cut through a screen, flesh is probably nothing in comparison. So I could’ve been hurt. Greg could’ve been hurt. We’ve had to move – so we’ve lost our home. We’re paying mortgage and rent, and my anxiety is through the roof and now on top of that I’m actually depressed, and this is shit I’m going to be dealing with and working through for years and years to come, if not for the rest of my life. So, old robber, you stole my home and my life and my sanity and my comfort and a whole bunch of intangible shit that was actually rather important, and I’m pretty miserable and fucked up, and you’re just (comparatively) chilling. Merry fucking christmas to you, you fucker. I had finally gotten to the point where the PTSD-like shit that has been hanging over me since childhood, that makes me so uncomfortable and freaked out when I’m home alone – I’d pretty much gotten past that, so that I could sleep in the house with the lights out when Greg wasn’t home. Almost like I was an adult or something. But then old robber had to go and fuck that right up, so thanks. But again, I don’t really understand the mindset, but I can imagine that if I did happen to meet old robber, and tried to explain my position, old robber would basically be like, “Fuck you. I care about ME, and I wanted that shit. I felt entitled to it, who cares how it affects you?” Much like my dad, actually, now that I think about it: “I care about ME, I feel entitled to behave the way I do, who cares how it affects you? Fuck you.” Niiiice.
Yeah, so today sucked ass in therapy. Which means it was probably a good start. And it’s fucking HUGE that I feel safe in the apartment, and I do. (That’s an odd bonus to the robbery and attempted robbery most likely being linked and targeted. On the one hand, old robber was totally after Greg’s shit and would’ve kept trying to get it until he either got it or got caught. On the other hand, now that we’ve moved, he won’t be trying to get into that house anymore, and he doesn’t know where we moved to, and even if he does, good luck breaking into an apartment in the middle of a bunch of other apartments with NEIGHBORS, asshole.) So, yeah, I feel safe here. That’s huge. There is the occasional night when shit gets stirred up (scary movies I know I shouldn’t watch, anxiety riled up over money stuff, anxiety stirred up because of therapy, shit like that) and I’m a little nervous about sleeping with the lights off, but for the most part, I feel safe. And that’s fucking huge, for me, that’s an accomplishment. I just wish I could get past all this other bullshit.
Anyhoodle. Today was lovely and rainy all day – although I’m not really digging on the tornado watches and warnings, and flood watches, especially since Greg has practice in Raleigh tonight. And I’m all riled up from therapy. Whatever. I read some shit for my class tomorrow (and I mean “shit” in the “stuff” sense, it was actually interesting and enjoyable). I think there’s a new episode of Eureka to catch up on, so I might knit and do that, as long as the thunderstorms don’t knock the power out. Otherwise I get to read for pleasure. (Yay!) I’m thinking about checking out a camera again so I can take some proper pictures (especially of the Librivox knitting) instead of cellphone pictures. But since all I’ve got right now is cellphone pics, I will leave you with one – Skeeter playing with possibly his favorite toy of all time: the paper bag. Goddess bless whoever invented it. Sorry it’s so dark.
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