part 76

So I got a good start on my new novel. Then I got an email from my mom, and got a bit derailed.

I hadn't heard a single word from her in two months, and then she emails me to let me know that I should have confronted her face to face about the things I was telling people she was doing. I wrote an email back describing exactly what she had done to me, and reminded her that I have been trying to confront her about this shit for years, but she gets so aggressively defensive at the slightest suggestion that she could have been anything other than an unwitting young mother trying to survive being married to a monster that there is no room at all for discussion.

I also asked her not to contact me anymore, so she wrote me back telling me that she didn't do anything and I had to deal with it, and it looked like she was going to be the one who finally confronted me about my memories, and that I was definitely having "false memories," and that I was obviously very angry at her and what I thought I was remembering was actually a projection of my anger, and now that she can see how angry I am, she can see my perspective so much more clearly.

So I wrote her back to let her know I would be applying for a restraining order if she tried to contact me or my husband or my kids at all.

Jesus fucking Christ.

It was exactly what I expected from her, but it still felt like she kicked me in the stomach. I felt pretty stunned for that entire day, and just sad.

It has been very strange to see the woman I wanted to be my loving mother without the filter of my needing her to be my loving mother. That need for her love and approval is probably one of the most powerful things I can imagine ever controlling me and distorting my view of reality to see only what I want to see - and what she wanted me to see. It is very similar to the way my dad was able to control me.

I do want to interject something very important at this point: my mom is a professional and she is very good at her job. She helps a lot of people - kids and families and individuals. I am in no way attacking her ability to be good at what she does professionally, and in no way want to take her ability to help away from people who benefit from it.

But on a personal level, she is a mind-fucking bitch.

I think a lot about my intentions in writing this blog.

If I idealize my intentions, then I my purpose for writing the blog is allowing the world to see me going through this very intimate and difficult process of recovering from torture, rape, exploitation, and all of the other ridiculously fucked up shit I grew up experiencing - and, in turn, helping other people who have experienced that same kind of shame and loneliness and pain and just letting them know they are not alone.

If I don't idealize my intentions, then I am writing all of this down and putting it out there because it makes me feel better. It's MY story and actual things that happened to me and my real emotions and thoughts and fears and triumphs, and maybe I am simply an emotional exhibitionist, but by god it empowers me and makes me feel stronger.

If I totally demoralize my intentions, and myself, then I am writing all of this to get attention and to hurt people I have been angry with my whole life. I am using this as a vehicle of retaliation and destruction, and am being juvenile and histrionic and just plain mean.

If I am as honest with myself as possible, I can consider that any of these explanations of my intentions holds truth. I like to think that my writing and exposing my pain and progress helps other people get through their own pain and progress a little easier. I don't mind thinking that my writing this is solely to make me feel better about all of it - which it does. I really don't like thinking that I am trying to underhandedly ruin people's lives in a campaign of subterfuge and revenge (even if it means that I get to use the phrase "campaign of subterfuge and revenge").

I can think about my intentions and make myself feel like a saint, and I can think about my intentions and make myself feel like the tiniest piece of shit that has ever walked the earth.

But I know I am not a saint, and I know I am not the tiniest piece of shit that has ever walked the earth. These are things I KNOW. They aren't things I would like to think about myself, or really don't want to think about myself, or even just don't mind thinking about myself. They are true statements rooted strongly and deeply in reality.

I don't think it is a good idea for me to try and define myself in any way - I'm not always the same person to myself, or to other people. I change and grow from my experiences, and I experience new things every day.

But I KNOW that I am a good person. I KNOW that I have been through a lot of really fucked up shit. I KNOW that my pain is valid and real. I KNOW that when it comes down to it, I am writing all of this and posting it on the internet because it is what I CAN do.

One of the really empowering things about putting it all out there is that I know people can all have their own interpretations or reactions or think whatever they want about my words, and I have no power over that.

It feels really good knowing that I can say what is true and what is real, and that anyone who wants to can try to encourage or undermine that, but it is just as true and real as always.

No matter what anyone else thinks or believes or does, I feel peace about my own sanity. I don't think it is relevant if I can take a beating or not, mentally or physically, I can just see that getting beaten is not really relevant. My fear of what other people might think or believe about me does not change who I am. It can change how I act, but I am who I am. Like Popeye.

If I was a house, people could plant flowers around me or bombard me with paintballs, or break my windows, or lovingly restore my weathered parts. None of those things would make me NOT a house.

And if my mom wants to explain to people that I have gone off the deep end, am somehow living in an alternative psychotic reality, that the things I remember are real unless it makes her look bad, that she really does love me and want the best for me, then she can do that all day long.

I don't have to listen to that shit. I know who I am - much more so now than four and a half years ago. As with my dad, I would really prefer to be bat-shit crazy than to have all of the things my mom is denying be real.

But I'm not crazy, and by continuing to try to make people believe that I am, my mom is doing nothing different than she ever has done. All that has really changed has been my ability to recognize her for who she is, to come to the point where my own sanity and peace of mind are more important to me than her love and approval.