Sundrip Journals
I heard so many one line commands about who I shouldn’t trust but you never told me when its okay to trust.
Never trust a man when he tells you he loves you. He just wants to sleep with you.
Never trust anyone who says “trust me.”
When is it okay to believe a man who says “I love you?” Exactly when is it okay to trust at all? Please tell me, how did you summate the trustworthiness of a complete gender into one single sentence?
***comments are off***
I was on my way home from therapy and in decent shape. I wasn’t overly dissociative nor was I overly stressed so I figured I’d stop off at DAV because after all it was dollar Monday. I wondered what sort of treasures I might find. Since I forgot my wallet at home I abandoned my treasure hunt and headed straight home. Before I could get home I’d have to cross the railroad tracks. I could see up ahead the red lights flashing warning of a coming train so I slowed my speed appropriately. I was breathing slowly, almost in a content sort of way. Normally one would desire that but in no way were my thoughts peaceful or joyful. I pulled off to the side in the parking lot of a paint supply store and got out of the car. I lit a cigarette and let the train pass by. After it was no where in sight I got back in my car and went home, alive.
I’m not sure why it makes me sad but it does. I’ve seen her several times and had lunch with her a few times at the University. I guess to get a letter from her via email today was more moving than I expected it to be. I literally brought me to tears.
Today I slept through therapy. I went to bed earlier than usual but wasn’t able to sleep due to extreme pain. I finally fell asleep around 9am and slept until 4:45PM. I woke when the phone rang. It was a friend calling to tell me she missed me a lot and that she loves me. She said she’d been thinking about me. It was hard to hear anyone’s voice at all because I just woke from a bad dream. I called my therapist to tell him I was sorry I missed my appointment. He wasn’t available. I’ll see him on Monday.
I know… well I fear that each time I’m going to vomit then sleep for hours, then get up and go about my business as if nothing happened at all. I wonder if I’m ever going to be normal in this way or if it’s always going to be like this. How do I know what’s normal and what’s not and how do I know if my mother was lying or not? At this point does it even matter if the way I was raised was a lie since it is so ingrained in me? Does it really matter if it was a lie or not since I treat it as truth? It’s as “natural” to believe it as it is to open my mouth and give up dinner.
I have so many questions and even a young girl’s giggling curiosity.
I waited outside my therapist’s office with my headphones on because sometimes sitting in the waiting room makes me a bit anxious. The headphones allow me to block out outside noises but it still leaves inside ones. At least I’m able to block something out.
When my trigger response is high I focus on one instrument and listen to it. I then listen to each instrument and recognize how it compliments the others. Basically I dissect the piece then put it back together again. It helps me not panic and not see or hear every single thing around me. It calms hypervigilance more than anything else I’ve ever tried.
Lenora sat behind the driver’s seat unsure of her next move. To her traveling companion she said, “What now, Danielle? Do we wait or drive on? With near abhorrence in her voice she replied, “We’ve been here on the side of the road for 8 days. I seriously doubt she’s coming.”
“She always shows up, why not this time?”
“She’s not coming. Drive on. ”
The gears strip and the car lunged forward then back as Lenora attempted to drive a beat up manual import down a highway going the wrong direction. While wresting with the shift she can hear the tires struggle for traction, vibrate and quake on black pavement. Then bam! One after the other tires explode. Rubber flies across the sky like black crows and lands where it pleases barely missing families on their way to well planned vacations.
Dr. D says I have been more reactive to the Fife’s lately. I agreed. They seem to really get under my skin in a huge way. They get to me so much so that I have to remind myself of a few things:
I don’t have to show them how to set better boundaries.
I don’t have to teach them better communication skills or show them how to use an “I” message.
I am not required to rush in and show them the error of their ungrateful ways. That is simply not my job.
I don’t have to accept the crap they give me by reacting or over reacting to their stupidity.
I don’t need to be the voice of reason or the calm one nor the unapproachable one.
I can be me in every way instead of fulfilling a role in this dysfunctional family.
Continue reading ‘I Am, I Can’
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