The shock of coming to terms with my mom and what she has
done is starting to wear off. I mean, I was never overly joyous about it, but I'm
beginning to feel this sharp pain in my heart instead of just being bummed.
I use this analogy a lot, so sorry if you've heard it before
and are bored by it, you can just click that little x in the top right hand corner
of your screen.
(it seems I'm a little fussy, too)
I was pitching in a softball game for my P.E. class in high
school when this guy hit a line drive into the middle section of the left side
of my ribcage. I blacked out, but I didn't pass out. I knew I was going to
fall, so I just focused on not ending up with my face in the ground because I thought
it would be embarrassing (yes, that's actually what I was thinking at that time
- high school. I don't miss it at all).
Anyway, I ended up on my knees and when I started to get my
vision back the pain stabbed me in my ribs. I couldn't breathe or talk for a
few seconds, but those abilities came back pretty quickly. I stood up slowly
and looked down at my arms. My left arm was curled tight against my middle
where the ball hit me, but my left glove was also there, and it had the
softball in it, which made me feel a little better about the pain, but it still
hurt like a motherfucker.
You know, I start with these analogies, and I think I have
them all planned in my head before I start writing, but then I start to piece it
all together as I'm writing, and it unintentionally turns out being some uber-cliché
life lesson.
The whole reason I was telling the story about getting hit
by that ball was because that is how I am feeling when I think about my mom. The
straight, direct hit to my chest, the fading out of what was happening, and the
falling on my knees, and the sharp pain stabbing me. That's what it's like.
But then when I got to the part in the story about not
falling on my face, about getting back up, and about realizing I got that
line-driving bastard out by holding onto the ball even though I was not aware
of it, I was all like - "hey, wait - that also is analogous to my
experiences throughout my life," and then I was like, "man, I hate
that cheesy shit," and then I rolled my eyes and groaned on the inside.
I am a bit bummed that it turned out that way. The physical
feeling of being hit by that ball really is so much how I'm feeling about my
mom, but it’s a nice tidy lesson about getting back up when I'm down, and I really
hate clichés. But there you have it.
I've pretty much been avoiding the mom pain by looking
straight through it and out the other side. Doing that works for a while, but I
don't want to see things through the mom pain, I want to see things through my
own eyes.
At my last therapy session, I said something about the mom
pain and my therapist said, "it's really deep, isn't it?" I looked at
her and said, "mmhm" because it's true, but I didn't feel like
elaborating so I just stared off for a few seconds and though about the giant
version of the biggest knife in the butcher block aimed at me, the very tip already
poking through my shirt and pressing against my skin, and anticipated how it
was going to feel as it went through my chest and knowing it was my mom shoving
it in.
And then I said, "but we don't have to talk about that
right now," and my therapist said, "okay." She's awesome. So I put
my mom back in her box in my head and put the lid on it. I told my therapist
that I would be okay putting it off for now, since it's not a brand new box -
those are the ones that knock me off my ass, but this wasn't a new box, and
then I thought about how I felt when I first realized that box existed, and I couldn't
remember, and my therapist said that box has always been there, and I just
nodded my head because I didn't feel like saying anything at all.
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