Everything is so strange…
Do you ever just stare at yourself in the mirror and not recognize who’s looking back at you anymore? It’s not the new, tiny worry lines forming at the corners of my mouth, or the beginnings of crows feet under my eyes. Its the truth staring right back at me. A truth that I haven’t been able to see almost all of my life. I always said if I could be better that I would work toward that change, but I’m not sure if I have the will anymore. There’s a tiny flicker of heat somewhere in me, I can feel it once in a while urging me to strike out, to push against the walls that keep closing in, to fight against these feelings.
I’m afraid of failing, but when I look back, that’s all I see. I see an entire life of failures, my own personal failures. I have two things in this life worth living for, and they’re the same two things that I’m clawing to get away from. I guess every parent needs a break. I need a break. I’m not the invincable person I thought I was 10 years ago…8 years ago…3 years ago. I have a multitude of psychological issues that have to be worked out in order for me to move forward in my life, but I’m not sure that I am capable of facing them. All I know, is that I don’t want my children to think of me, the way that I think of my mother.
I don’t want to use the cop out “I did the best I could”, because if I -always- did the best I could, then I certainly wouldn’t be where I am right now. If I had used sound judgement, if I hadn’t been so worried about being loved and learned to love myself a little more, I would be well out of college with a Master’s degree and moving forward with my life, with my career. How many more mistakes can I make until everyone’s pleased? How much more can I give of myself until everyone else is satisfied, and when they’re all happy with me, am I going to even know who I am?
I pass judgement on other people, perhaps that’s why I’m afraid they pass judgement on me. I’m defensive because I’m used to raking other’s over the coals, and I think I’m just waiting for my turn. I don’t know how to face up to my insecurities, I don’t know how to make them go away and I certainly don’t know how to stop hiding behind them. I’m not strong. My sword isn’t sharp anymore, and my shield has been cracked, I don’t even know if I have the strength to lift them back up…let alone the inclination.
I feel everything wrong. I can’t read people anymore, my judgement is clouded by my own frustrations and anger…and I take everything personally. I’m always ready for a fight…I’m always doom and gloom. Why can’t I just take a breath and not care? Why can’t I let things go? Why…can’t I even answer my own questions? The Busbar helps me with the anxiety attacks, they’re not as severe as they used to be, and now when I remember things…now when I dream….I don’t wake up in cold sweats, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. Every day I question myself, my worth, my ability as a parent. I hate questioning myself, but at least I do it with the hopes of being a better person, right? That’s got to count as something…fuck…it’s got to count as something or I’m slowly driving myself crazy for nothing.
It’s hard having your faults pointed out to you, I’m just as much a receiver as I am a giver in this area. You’d think with as much as I hate it, I’d stop doing it to other people…some habits die hard. Everyone’s life is difficult, everyone deals with situations differently, and I’m not any better than anyone else in that respect, am I? If my life was a movie, I wouldn’t even know how to categorize it…Drama probably. I’m just as much to blame for the way I turned out, as my mother. And she’s just as much to blame for the way her life turned out, as her mother is and so on and so forth. Will Vaiyanen blame me too? Will she look at me when she’s a young woman and tell her friends how much she respects and admires me, or will she have the same horror stories to tell her friends as I do?
I feel lost…everything is dark…and cold…oddly and unmistakably familiar, and I’ve lost the path I was on. When I look around, when I realize I’ve made my own path, I know that the road I’ve chose to travel is no one’s fault but my own, and it’s just another burden that I have to bear. It’s not easy admitting that I screwed myself up. I stepped on that path of self destruction at 18 years old and I haven’t detoured off of it one time. I just keep barreling through it, waving my martyr flag and pretending that I have a valid reason or excuse for allowing myself to hurt and to be hurt.
I don’t want a diagnosis, but I don’t want to be who I am anymore. And worse than that, I know that if my Mother read this right now, she wouldn’t feel responsible…she would feel smug, probably happy that I’m as miserable as she is. But it would all come from the hurt and the truth that she’s kept hidden for so long. Because she’s always the victim. That’s the difference between she and I, I don’t want to be the victim and she thrives on the attention she gets from it. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why she keeps eating, because at least if she’s big…it’s some kind of attention, a segway into a conversation with a stranger in a bar, or a grocery store…to garner sympathy for a life she readily fucked up all by herself.
Just like me, she chose what path she took, but unlike me…she doesn’t want to change it, she sits and waits for everyone around her to change in order to satiate her need to be right…even if she knows that she isn’t. I don’t think her head ever progressed past 16. I know I should move on from my mother, but Jesus, she’s supposed to be my mom. She was a single parent, she’s supposed to understanding and supportive, not judgemental, after all…isn’t it every parents wish that their children are better than they are?
That’s my wish…
I don’t know why I crave a relationship with such a broken person. I guess I don’t want to be her, I guess I hold out hope that she’ll change and love me for who I am, instead of who she wants me to be. I don’t even know if she’s capable of that much. I don’t even know why I’m writing about her…I don’t know why I’m giving her this much power over my life, my heart or my thoughts. I always thought she’d be on my side, in one way or another, but she’s just as sneaky and underhanded as the rest of my blood relatives. I feel like…I don’t know how to be happy.
When I look back, I have a few brief glimpses of happiness, but they’re so brief…fleeting. Like cupping water in your hands, only to watch it slowly drain out between your fingers…no matter how I try to hold onto it…I just can’t. I’m raw and open…exposed…I detest feeling this vulnerable.
I detest feeling weak.
Fayne
