Warning: This post contains mentions of parental abuse.
I am scared.
So, incredibly scared.
I am at my mother’s house. It happened again. I was so afraid that she will come to see me herself that I decided to come down for a few days.
And I have also decided that by the end, I will leave her a letter. I will explain, everything. Lay it out. Tell her that I do not want to see her again.
And guess what? I turn up, and she’s… okay. She acts nice. And it bothers me. Because I don’t trust it. I dont know what it means. I am not used to it. She has been talking about mating my partner, and housing and helping out with things…. And I dont get any of it. I am used to her hitting me, belittling me and making me feel worthless. I feel like a hurt animal. I dont know what to do.
I am shitting myself. I dont know what she will do once she reads the letter, and if I get a phone call from her I might just have a breakdown on the coach. I dont know what she can do. I have a draft in my mind… but I will be writing it up later and… I am so, so afraid.
But I want to be better. I want to be healthy. I cant do that if I fear her existance every day of my life.
Let’s talk about my brain. I have… a thing. Something that I think many other people may relate to. I physically cannot tell who is my friend. I just can’t. Today, me and a group of friends had a bit of an argument centred around my partners DM skills (we play Dungeons and Dragons together) and some stuff about my playing character.
Not even an argument really, just a group of people raising their concerns. Not a big deal, right? But I spent the rest of the night with my brain screaming “see? they hate you! They think you are an attention seeking prick who ruins their fun every Wednesday.” Now… logically, I can tell myself that no, that’s probably not true, and that just because somebody has a few complaints, only one of which had anything to do with me. But I can’t… shake it, despite knowing the logical truth.
My brain just can’t accept it. They have to hate me. But it got me thinking. Who are my friends? I don’t think I can consider anyone outside my partner a friend, because I don’t think they see me that way. But I don’t really know… what makes someone my friend?
It feels like my brain just can’t accept the concept that someone cares. Like… I know people hang out with me but I always explain it with things like… people being polite. Or just allowing my existence because my partner is there. I can’y shake it, and with the rest of the bull happening with my brain…
This is really becoming too much.
Warning: This post contains mentions of self harm.
Right now, my skin is on fire. It feels like maggots crawling underneath the surface. My mind is screaming. It wants blood.
This happens to me sometimes. When I get bad, I can catch myself reaching for a knife, or staring at the drawer in the kitchen where the sharp tools are. I have spoken about it in therapy. About how sometimes my brain gets to overdrive over the course of a few days and then it just goes snap. I try to not do anything stupid. I cant say that I dont want to. Because at try his point I dont know. A part of me really does. Another is afraid. Some other part of me doesn’t care.
And now, I feel like restless, I fidget trying to control this. I don’t know what to do with myself. I cant focus on anything as a distraction. My head won’t shut up. It just keeps going. On and on and on. Its like an itch, and no scratch besides that of a sharp tool can take it away. Well… I lie, of course. I try to just… wait it out. At times it goes away with time.
Its been two hours. I dont know at this point. I do not want time relapse. I dont want time oo do it again. But this feeling isn’t going away.
Let’s talk about family.
Tomorrow, its Easter Sunday. Where I come from, it’s basically Christmas 2.0. The whole family gets together, there is a feast, a shit tonne of food.
I have spent countless hours today cooking traditional Polish food. Baking cheesecake and cutting vegetables for a salad. Painting pisanki (polish easter eggs). But I won’t be sitting down at the table with my mother and step father, my brother and uncle.
Tomorrow, I will instead be sitting at a table with my fiancé, and my friend who also doesn’t have a family to spend the easter with. I will be showing them Polish traditions and we will laugh and enjoy our time together.
But still… I am scared. This is my first time celebrating easter properly since I’ve left. And at the same time I feel like I shouldn’t be. Because after all… My mother and step father hurt me. They did things to me that will forever have an effect on me.
And yet… I feel lonely. A part of me actually misses them, despite knowing that I dont want to see them ever again. Over the years, my mother especially made me feel that I have nobody in the world outside of her. That I cannot survive, let alone live without her.
I battle against that notion every day. And tomorrow, is one of those big battles. I want it to be perfect. Its why I’ve spent hours in the kitchen. I dont want to be lonely.
My partner is now my family. My friends are my family. And I will sit with them tomorrow, in honesty and care. It wont be perfect. I know that. I might get sad, need a moment alone for five minutes but… its a start. A start to letting go of the abusive bond my biological family forced on me.
I wont let them make me lonely.
Recovery from mental illness is a very…complex procedure. Many of us, with good intention, show the good bits. The good days, the sunshine and even the occasional rainbow. The times when we manage to eat properly, and have showered, and gotten dressed.
It’s important to show those parts. They are worth the effort. They can serve as motivation I think.
But for that to be true… we need to remember that bad days still exist. Those deserve to be shown as well. Today, aside from going to therapy I have done exactly fuck all. Sat in my clothes, watching shit all day (I mean not literally, Rick and Morty is currently my go to show for binging hours at a time). And my hair was a mess, and greasy, and I felt pretty shitty about it. But one of the things we must remember when trying to get better is that accepting bad days is part of the process.
They, after all, serve a reason. I’m not quite sure what that reason is for me, but I’m working on it, at my own pace. The part of me that I’m currently having a fallout with tried to tell me that I should be doing something. Anything. That I can’t just sit and watch T.V for the day.
Well.. why not? I had naught else to do, I wasn’t feeling great and cuddling up on the sofa with a pot of tea once a few days is no harm to anyone. And, in the end I did manage to do something productive. I am writing this after all, so the day is not wasted.
I will celebrate that. With a little happy dance, I will celebrate, because even the bad days are progress. Even when they don’t feel like it.