Heavy from start to finish, dissociation and typical switching. Anna and Robert.

Going to therapy and coming back takes up to 4 hours. It’s physically and emotionally exhausting. I came home and went to sleep. When I woke I decided to take the trash out which meant braving the stairs again. One of the best things about not being on pain killers is that I can walk for most of the day. When its later in the day mobility is near zero, but I have a measure of mobility returned to me since I stopped taking pain killers.

Therapy…the dream was processed quite a bit. He and I concluded that I am more aware of the emotional impact that abuse had on my life. That sounds silly coming from a girl with 10+ years of quality therapy under her belt. Anyway, I acknowledged that I understand the autobiographical dream with it’s out there for everyone to see abuse and bigger than life parental force. It was my life step by step only with gender reversal. The young man was convinced that what his father was doing wasn’t abuse. Staying in that abusive relationship served a purpose, approval.

We talked about seeing photos of my 90 year old grandmother smiling. I had such conflicting feelings about her. He asked how I’m going to feel about her inevitable death. I said, her mother lived to be 95, evil lives a good long time. People in our family live in their mid to late 90’s. Still, I said, the pain I’ll feel will be for my mother. If she is able to understand that her mother has died then my mother will be cheated in this life of ever having done, said or become something her mother was willing to be proud of. She will not have her mother’s love, at all. It’s like a final insult. “I snubbed and abused you, denied you of a mother daughter relationship, humiliated you in front of your children and now any fantasy you have about being worth a cent to me is dead.” How hurtful and cruel, especially since my turn will come for the same.

Was there a second when my mother felt loved by the people who mattered to her most? Could she recognize love is or was she too damaged way before my sister and I came along? It has taken me 40 years to truly feel loved, something I fear my mother has never felt.

Her abusive mother sat smiling in that photo. I smiled back, just because toothless old ladies are cute, not because there’s a single happy moment remembered. My grandmother has had 90 years of life dedicated to self. She is personally responsible for the abuse of way too many of us to count and yet she sat there smiling, holding the very last moments my mother will ever have with her fantasy of a mother – daughter loving relationship. I feel like spitting in her 90 year old face. How dare you hurt my mother? My grandmother’s fingers have touched 3 generations. I am not the only family member up nights, afraid to sleep. I’m part of a long line of survivors and abusers. I can count them back by name. One individual has a name that when said everyone stops. Even in death he can cause that kind of fear.

The poem about these generations called “Your Secret” was taken off my blog a long time ago. I’ve put it back. It’s on the Slide Shows page now.

I will not have my mother’s love, however, her death will be the same slap in the face that’s dealt her upon her mother’s death. There is one tiny twist, my mother has Alzheimer’s related to her diabetes. For the first time that I can remember she said my name and looked at me without derision. In 2012 I walked up behind her and said hello. It had been 20 years since I’d seen her. I didn’t know about the Alzheimer’s then. When she saw me she said my name with an exhalation of happiness to see her daughter. She was not expecting it, nor was I. I never expected my mother to ever call me Faith with such “love” in her voice. I got what I needed that day, what I’d been needing. I remember saying that if I could have bottled up that moment I would have. I can still feel that. For just a moment I was not disgusting to her and she used the name I chose for myself, not the one she gave me at birth. That meant everything. She called me Faith. That means she thinks of me as that name or it wouldn’t have come out of her mouth after not seeing me for 20 years. I just want to raise up and go, I WIN!! I’m Faith and my mother knows it!! I win!

About a month ago my chosen mother Betty had this little tiny bottle with a cork top and asked if I had any use for it. I took it, put MY name on a piece of paper, the date 2012 and placed it in the bottle. I got my moment, the one I disgraced myself so many times to get but only received after a long absence and a horrible illness called Alzheimer’s.


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One thought on “Therapy Review: Dream. Abuse History.

  1. Thank you for the likes. I know some of these entries can be pretty heavy and involved. Thank you for your time.

    Smiles to you and yours

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