Anger is one of those emotions that I tend to spill. Because I spill I start to withdraw, clam up and rage inside.
I don’t do dependency very well. Any kind makes me feel weak; it makes me feel like I don’t exist as an individual, something I fought hard and long to get. The other night on Criminal Minds the Latin detective said about Penelope, “She wears her individuality like armor.” WOW. He could have been talking about me. One of the things Morton says about the Pride is, “I am here. This is mine.”
Last week in therapy we talked about how the mother kept telling the sister and me that she owned us. She out right said she owned us but then there were phrases like, “I’m your mother” and “You’re my daughter” which she explained meant we had no choice in the matter. It’s just how it was. She owned us. We depended on her for every single thing. I didn’t like that idea at all so I butted heads with her.
As with many abused children we didn’t have a lot of contact with the outside world. We didn’t bring many friends home, didn’t go to their house with permission. As a matter of fact, outside was pretty much off limits. If we went outside and were caught (she came home from work and caught us) there was blood to pay for that. she would smell our clothes to see if they had that outside smell on them. If they did, we got our asses beat. I figured, well hell, it doesn’t matter if I stay in or go out she WILL find something to hit on us for. So I started going outside. I showered, changed my clothes and tried to get that outside smell off of me. But that wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t the sneak behind your back type. That was my sister and since I saw her as my mother’s with no backbone at all I didn’t want to be like that. So, I stood outside waiting for her. Even if I didn’t play outside that day I still opened the door and stood on the porch so she could see me. I knew very well I was going to be in trouble. The point was, I DO NOT BELONG TO YOU. I EXIST WITHOUT YOU. I just wanted her to know I could take her punches and still not cave to her every demand. I could have saved myself some trouble had I just stayed in the house.
My need to prove my point got stronger as I got older and saw more of the outside world. In high school when she was still sexually assaulting me, still beating the crud out of me I decided I’d let her know I knew she was dead wrong for it all. I’d been reading the book “The Right To Innocence.” There’s a part in there that lists survivors rights. I wrote those rights on poster board then cut it in half and placed them on both sides of a picture of a little girl walking down a dirt path towards who knows what. They sat up there like the 10 Commandments they did. There’s a part in the book where a girl in group wanted to join the group in writing the names of their abusers on the board. She was embarrassed because she had 13 names to write. I took her lead and wrote on my wall the names of family and non-family members that took part in hurting me. I didn’t title the list. I just wrote it on the wall next to my rights. There was no way on earth she could come in my room and not see it. She came in, as usual and as usual we pretended nothing was out of the ordinary. I was just trying to prove I could feel something and think thoughts that she didn’t control. I wanted to prove that I was an individual and I didn’t need her to dictate my thoughts, my existence.
I don’t want to go to therapy tomorrow. I don’t know what I’ll say other than I’m angry. Lord knows I don’t want to sit there and cry for a full hour saying nothing at all, just sitting there, hugging that germ filled pillow. Because I don’t want to spill I end up shutting down, clamming up. I’m angry and embarrassed.
Morton’s guilt is high over not being able to protect us from the mother. The therapist says that with how out of control the mother was no one could protect us all the time, every day, every hour. The job was too big he said. We talked about how the mother knew Morton by name and about how she use to mock him and try to get him to come out. She was scared of him when he did. There was no guarantee that he’d pop out. It was like rolling the dice. She mocked and pushed and called him by name until she pushed too far and there he was in her face. A dog we use to have she decided to call Mortimouse after Morton. The woman walked a thin line. She knew him early on. Stupid, stupid woman.
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