Sundrip Journals
I’m still here. I’m sort of withdrawn, closed up, not really doing much outside of dealing with the kittens and therapy.
I met my new medical doctor today. I like him. He had me laughing when he described himself as pasty and ‘pigment deficient’. I told him not to worry, its okay. Poor thing, it’s no true. He’s not going to be okay. I’ve never seen the likes of it. …. anyway…. The guy is hilarious but he’s also very kind. When getting blood work done he stayed with me.
I’m ridiculously sad but I’m not sure why. My mood is kind of pissy. I don’t want to talk to anyone over the phone or either of my roommates. I’ve avoided both of them like the plague. It feels as if I’m fighting to keep from slipping into a fit of rage. I feel as if I’m seconds from snapping at people.
We talked about the dream called Focus and Move Forward where I mentioned my first love Danny. His time in my life was a typical Hollywood love tragedy. If you’ve seen the movie My Girl then you get a good idea about the two of us. There was fishing, catching crawdads in the creek, catching fireflies and climbing trees. I even played in a field of wildflowers, farmed rows of corn and walked across a rope bridge. Just like in My Girl it ended with one dead and one holding on to beautiful, beautiful memories. I don’t regret knowing him or his family but I hate how it ended. I try not to think about how it ended, just that we had some really good times.
Today is the first time I’ve seen my therapist flinch.
I had my first full pap-smear at age nine. When the doctor was finished he asked me a few questions with my mother standing beside me. The doctor put his hands on my knees, leaned in and said, “Is anyone touching you?” He asked about a long hair he found. He asked if I’ve ever inserted a drinking straw into myself or a pencil. I said no. What a strange question, a straw, a pencil? Strange I thought. Before I left he told the mother I was one of the most polite little girl’s he’d ever met.
I spent my entire therapy session today talking about how much my mother should suffer for what she’s done.
I want her to never walk again and be totally dependent on someone else. I want her to have a feeding tube and never taste food again. No freedom, no joy. I want her hair to fall out and for her to weight 500 pounds. I want her bed ridden with bed soars and big black bags under her eyes. I want her bones to ache. Every tiny bone should ache with no end to the pain in sight. I want her eye sight to fail allowing her to only see shadows. I want her locked in a small, dark room with loud techno music and no heat. She should sit naked in her own filth. No dementia, I want her fully aware that she’s suffering.
Dr. D asked me how I feel about the things I wrote in my entry. I was to give names to what I feel instead of just details of what happened.
Statement: “I’ll always love you. I’d love you even if you were gay, on drugs or a murderer.”
I feel confused, a bit angry, frustrated. I’d like to know why homosexuals are grouped in with murderers. I’d like to know how she chose the three worst things in the world and I’d like to know how she, a lesbian herself, could ever be so judgmental about my sexuality. In addition to telling me she’d always love me she also told me I was killing her love for me. She told me she would one day stop loving me.
I’m frustrated and angered by the fact that she burdened me with the job of making her love me. I could either maintain it or kill it, it was all up to me how she felt. It was a burden, a depressing, sad, frustrating job at which I failed miserably. I think a good word to describe it is guilt, guilt for not being able to do something to make my mother love me. I also told Dr. D that my mother couldn’t feel love is Cupid himself shot her full of arrows, still I feel I failed her. I couldn’t show my mother that I’m worthy of love.
There have been two things on my mind lately, one is a statement my mother made to me and the other is one of her obsessions.
For some reason this same statement keeps playing in my head: “I’ll always love you. I’d love you even if you were gay, on drugs or a murderer.” I have no idea why that statement said to me so long ago keeps playing in my head.
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