From the prompt posted on Thecreative.cafe

“Half of the people lie with their lips; the other half with their tears”― Nassim Nicholas Taleb

“Ghosted” is a new-ish term to me. I don’t know, maybe it’s been around for a while and I just didn’t know how popular it had become in our current lexicon. When I look up the word in my trusty online dictionary app, the definition I’m referring to in this story is 23rd on the list of definitions applicable to the word, as follows: 

“to suddenly end all contact with a person without explanation, especially in a romantic relationship: They dated for a month and then she ghosted.”

“to leave a social event or gathering suddenly without saying goodbye: I’m getting tired so I think I might just ghost.”

Well there ya go. Now I have a word for what has happened. I’ve been “ghosted”. In my case it didn’t happen in a romantic relationship but rather a BFF relationship (Best Friends Forever, for anyone who is way out of the loop).

I’ve accepted that I am the common denominator; I know I haven’t had the most pleasing personality lately, or the most cheerful heart, as my therapist used to say. I am acutely aware that I’ve become quite unlikeable. But what I don’t know is why? What did I do that was so beyond the pale that someone who had been a very close friend for some 30 years, someone with whom I’ve shared many experiences, talked with every day at least once or twenty times, told each other every single bit of minutiae about our lives because it truly mattered, vacationed together, were in attendance at each other’s weddings, childbirth, divorces, etc.-you get the picture. We were each others’ “person”, our go-to gal for all and sundry.

And then one day, just seemingly out of fucking nowhere, ghosted. Never heard from again. Not answering any calls, texts, letters. Mutual friends don’t know anything, don’t want to get involved. Just……..nothing. Never again.

Come on people! Seriously? She didn’t  have the balls just even acknowledge that a friendship even existed? I’m losing my mind here. The not knowing why part is truly excruciating. Years go by and I still can’t figure it out. I’m still tortured. My husband pinpoints that first ghosting as the beginning of my mental and emotional deterioration.

There was absolutely nothing that I did, consciously, to cause this behavior on her part. I am only left with assuming something had been building up and she just couldn’t take it anymore. And I can accept that, even own it, but she can’t have the simplest decency to just tell me why, then goodbye? She is negating every single thing we’ve ever meant to each other. Her actions, or rather lack thereof, make every day of our decades of friendship one big soul-sucking lie. Really?

I can’t begin to explain the heartache being ghosted causes. It’s sad and hard enough to lose what feels like everything in one moment, but to spend the rest of my life not knowing why, or what, exactly happened the moment my friend decided, “Nope! No more! I’m done with her! She has only herself to blame! I don’t owe her anything!”

Uhhhhh, yes you do, bitch. Who are you, anyway? What a mockery you’ve made of everything. How can you live with yourself? And what kind of loser am I to have loved you and cherished our friendship all these years? And yet you say nothing. You are a ghost, an apparition, a daydream turned nightmare. Did you even exist?

This is not the same as friends drifting apart and eventually just not being in touch again. That’s normal, common, acceptable. People change, their lives evolve, they move on in a different direction. But the friendship did exist. And you can even send a Christmas card each year and feel sure it will be received warmly. But this ghosting business? This is unacceptable behavior, this is wrong on every level, this is war! You just don’t do this to a person.

But she did. It’s quite simply the most gutless, spineless, cowardly, and yes, even stunningly perverse, way to nullify another human being’s existence. I feel so betrayed. So misunderstood. So perplexed. So incredibly hurt. I feel just plain stupid. It was all a lie. I’m nobody to her and I never was.  I cannot and will not ever trust anyone again.

So I’m nobody. It’s all been just one big fucking whopper of a lie. I guess it’s fair to say that I really only exist in my own tortured mind.

I’m invisible. I don’t exist. I’m a ghost.

Why bother to try? Never resolved.

Loneliness is underrated. I embrace it.

Never made a mistake? You’re mistaken.

A dropped nail is never found.

Becoming a parent means goodbye, you.

Children leave, never come back. Yay!

Children don’t leave; when’s it over?

Children leave or don’t. Never over.

Downsize. It’s all just junk now.

Children born. Children frolic. Children leave.

Work sucks. Retirement never soon enough.

Plan. Accept nothing goes as planned.

Don’t ask? Then answer always No.

Being bullied? So is your bully.

High road is best, but lonely.

Every moment is a teaching moment.

Time: No pause, FF, rewind. Wait.

Opposite of love? Hate? No, apathy.

Choosing to ghost someone is cowardly.

Children change everything….for the best.

Women: periods, pregnancy, menopause. Men: sex.

I dare you to define fairness.

We’re living in the Twilight Zone.

When is too much, too much?

Born, educated, married, parented, abandoned, died.

Overthinking is torture. Puerility much preferred.

Be naive; be obtuse; be happy.

Be complicated; be circumspect; be miserable.

If you could redo, would you?

I deserve to show myself the same compassion I show others. And I deserve to receive the same compassion I show others. It’s time to start practicing “No Blame, No Shame”. It’s time to love myself for who I am and accept myself for how I feel. I often say things to others that are hurtful and burdensome but I know that what I say comes from my own pain, not from malice towards others. I am crying out for help; I am asking to be heard. Not criticized. Not rejected. Not blamed. I am asking for patience. I am asking for relevance. I am asking for validation. I am asking for forgiveness. I am asking for unconditional love. I am asking for compassion. I am asking for grace. I am asking for peace.

Continue reading “Compassion” →

Note: From a Prompt on the writing website TheCreative.Cafe:                             “I never made a mistake in my life; at least, never one that I couldn’t   explain away afterwards.”

― Rudyard Kipling

Mistakes are nothing if not subjective. My mistake is someone else’s good fortune. I may consider that someone I care about is making a mistake but who among us has the right to judge someone else’s choices? There is a great deal of arrogance in telling someone that they are making a bad decision, or have mistakenly observed something that isn’t exactly how they perceive. We as individuals absolutely must own 100% our personal choices, decisions, perceptions. Furthermore, no one is allowed to take anything away from us.

If I have caused something to happen that I then perceive to have been a mistake, my first job is to own it. I personally don’t have the lack of conscious to deny it or try to hide it. So I own it and I try to fix it. Sometimes I can, and other times, I cannot. If I am accused of having made a mistake, and I disagree with the perception that I have done something wrong, I will defend myself. I don’t believe that I am aggressively defensive, and I do try to hear the opposing opinion. But the flattest pancake has two sides, does it not? If we cannot resolve the conflict, if acceptance of misconception is not available, if we cannot agree to disagree, if apologies and forgiveness are not on the table, then who wins? Obviously no one. And sometimes permanent damage is done.

I live by my own personal motto which is that I only regret the things I don’t do. So since that is my true and authentic self, it goes without saying that I will make mistakes. I make choices based on that motto, based on the fact that if I don’t do something that I want to do, then I will never know what the outcome would have been and I find that regrettable. I am not an impulsive person, I do not feel “the need for speed”, I am not a danger to myself or to society. I’m just a regular person who tries to be true to myself while also being conscious of those around me and I do my best to make good choices, consider in advance any possible repercussions, and act accordingly. And as I said, if I end up producing an epic fail, then I do my best to rectify it.

I am human; I am fallible. I’m am absolutely imperfect. I do not know all the right things to say and do all the time. I try not to hold grudges but I do expect decency and I reserve the right to walk away from people who I believe do not have their own or my best interests at heart. I do believe that there are people who make mistakes knowingly to the detriment of others. It’s an attention-getting mechanism and it works quite a bit of the time. I’m sure I’ve been accused of such acts myself.

I simply choose to believe the following:

Everyone makes mistakes.

Not everyone knows or intends to makes mistakes that hurt other people.

The definition of what is a mistake will vary.

Sometimes it’s never really clear whether a mistake was really made.

If one knows he is mistaken, I hope he will own it and do his best to rectify it.

Those who think they’ve never make a mistake are quite mistaken.

We are mostly likely offered an opportunity to learn from our own or others’ mistakes.

Mistakes are not automatically bad.

Having the ability to sincerely admit your mistake and forgive others’ mistakes is healthy and even comforting.

For the unknown number of mistakes I’ve made in my lifetime, I can only hope that the goodness in me outweighs the ignorance in my choices that turn out to be mistakes that hurt others. As far as my mistakes that only affect me, I long ago offered myself a blanket forgiveness. I’m flawed, I err, I offend, I neglect, I forget, I’m human, and I forgive.

I’ve been told that I’m a good writer. The words “brilliant”, “gifted”, “riveting”, “honest”, and “eloquent” have been attributed to my stories. This has been very validating in recent weeks since I’ve been publishing my work to this online writing site.

But let’s face it, if you’ve read my stories, I’m pretty much of a buzzkill. I’m sick of myself so I can only assume you are as well. Would you please consider indulging me by allowing me a chance to redeem my sorry, sad self by trying something different?

The tediously common label “Suicide Note” just really gripes my ass. I cringe at the thought of anyone saying those meaningless words: “Oooooh! Did she leave a suicide note? Oooooh! What did she say? Who did she blame? What was wrong with her? Ooooh! Was it accidental or intentional?” “Did she talk about all the awful things in her life?” Oh dear god, just shut up. She’s dead ok? She’s gone. It’s over. Make up your own answers to your ridiculously obtuse questions.

This is my story that I want to tell before the end of my life. It’s going to happen to all of us so I’d like to be prepared because I don’t know when that end day will come for me. No one has ever had the opportunity to know what the very next moment of their life holds. All we are allowed is the present, the precious moments that we know that we are still alive on this earth. And we hopefully are able and planning to make the most of it. I want my last moment on earth to be the best moment of my life.

So, in the interest of diverting from my normal habit of emphasizing on all things painful and pathetic that I’ve posted on this website, I am challenging myself to write something positive, uplifting, self-validating and life-affirming for a change. I’m going to write about all the good and wonderful things that I am grateful for. I’m not going to make a list in any order of importance. That is a futile and hopeless attempt to make some feel better but also cause some to feel hurt.

So in free form streaming thoughts, here’s what I have to say at this present moment in time, and I cannot promise I will feel the same five minutes from now. However, I promise this missive is limited strictly to the good things.

I am smart, interesting, and interested in any and all things. I am well-read (though not as much as I’d like to be). I am quite humorous in a sarcastic way that can also be intelligent. Some people don’t always get me. I don’t care. Many people do. I’ve had a lifetime of friends who are on the same page as myself and we have connected best on that level of sarcastic humor that bonds us through gales of uninhibited laughter over the mountainous levels of ridiculousness in this life. That type of connection is vital to me. I just cannot take myself or anyone else too seriously. And I’ve saved myself a great deal of anguished over-thinking due to that trait. That’s a good thing.

I live in a judgment-free zone. “There but for the grace of God go I”. “The flattest pancake has two sides”. And I am most often lucky enough to be with like-minded people. That’s a good thing.

I am pretty. I’ve always been pretty. Aging has not been the most pleasant experience to endure when I look in a mirror. But I know I had more than my share of being noticed, complimented, desired. I care about that and it’s been important to me that I was lucky in that way. I worried about my weight when I was 108 lbs and I worried no more or less when I was 168 lbs. It’s a girl thing and we just have to accept it. And it’s still a good thing.

I am independent and have always been able to take care of myself, by myself. I relied on no one and I own all of my success. When I partnered with my husband, we became a team that could not be beat. I taught him independence and he taught me how to trust. It was a magical union. That’s a really good thing.

Our three children are indescribable, even to a wordsmith such as myself. If I were to consult my trusty thesaurus I still don’t believe the appropriate words have yet been invented. Would that I could come up with the proper words to express who they are, and what they mean to me; that would be my greatest legacy. But alas, I’m just not that clever, and so my legacy simply is the children I brought to this earth for the purest pleasure and enjoyment of anyone lucky enough to know them. When I’m gone, I leave them in the safe hands of all the many people who love them. That is a very good thing. Perhaps the best.

There are of course many other good things I could share but they don’t need to be detailed in this missive. I’ve covered the most important good things. Suffice it to say that I am aware that I have goodness in my life, including the accepting and offering of intangible gifts that everyone possesses, and I am lucky, indeed luckier than most. That’s a good thing.

There is no blame and no shame in death. I have a chronic disease that is sometimes fatal and I will eventually leave this life knowing that I did everything I could to save myself. And I have also lived my life primarily by intuition and did a pretty good job overall. It’s been a good life. And that’s an amazingly good thing.

Everybody Has A Story.

This I know through countless interesting connections and compelling relationships with people.  I ask a lot of questions and I listen and observe and follow up. I consider the opportunity to interact easily with people to be a privilege.

My own story essentially sucks. I’m constantly speculating on scenarios as to how the story ends.

Meanwhile, as always, I live by the tenet that the only regrets I have are the things I didn’t do.

Full disclosure, I’m very sick, with diagnoses that include MDD, PTSD, Anxiety and Panic Disorder and most recently Medication Resistant. I am 56 years old and by most observers I’ve had an okay life. But it’s time for it to be over. (For more understanding, please read my stories here on Medium “My Life Story In Six Word Sentences” and “The Year Of Living Desperately (My Journey Towards Mental Health Wellness And The Abject Failure Thereon)”.) I do not know or understand why my mental health illness has deteriorated so rapidly in the last few years. There are a number of things that have happened to me that are normal, life changing events, such as menopause, retirement, empty nest, questioning my 25 year marriage to the love of my life……I have everything to live for but I want to die more than ever now. The generally accepted arguments against suicide is tediously repetitive: it’s selfish, it will destroy the lives of your loved ones, (by the way, who, exactly are those people and where are they?), it’s a sign of weakness, it’s illegal (?, that’s just stupid), it’s cowardly, it’s “a permanent solution to a temporary problem”. The list goes on.

So here’s the case FOR suicide: I’m profoundly depressed for over 40 years, I should have never been born, ( factually true), I was abandoned several times in my youth by people who were sicker than me, I’ve done everything I know to do to get help, I’m an intelligent person with many resources available to me. Some things have worked. There was a period of time when I was “well”. I happily married the love of my life, we have three amazingly well-adjusted adult children, I had a successful career. It was all good, managed with medication and therapy. And I did it all by myself. Absolutely no support from anyone until I met my husband.

I left home at 17, unnoticed, and started to live the best life I could based on the lack of any role models, preparation, financial or moral support. And I did an amazing job. I was the exception. I was lucky enough to be smart and attractive. I attended college classes at night, part-time for years, on and off. I currently have an equivalent of about two years of college credits with a 3.69 GPA. I did not get to choose my career; it chose me. It was simply a matter of survival and I found out what I was good at, which was accounting, bookkeeping, administrative and office management.

I worked for 25 years for a CPA with his own practice and it was just the two of us. I made him a lot of money, and he paid me well. I should mention that he sexually harassed me for 15 years until I quit, explaining (lying) that I needed to spend more time with the children I had borne during these years. But he asked me to stay on with him in the form of working from home. Which I did for 10 more years. He never forgave me for denying him the sight of me on a daily basis, and he treated me badly, disrespectfully and when he became ill and retired, he gave me nothing. So yes, I was lucky to earn a good living but basically, I just prostituted myself, although there was never any physical activity, inappropriate touching, (well, maybe some), and I never ever encouraged him but I also never stopped putting up with it and I never told a soul. It was so incredibly damaging to my soul that I suffer from PTSD and have nightmares about it constantly. I actually did confront him with a letter, after I was similarly sexually harassed at another job by a colleague, and when I went straight to my boss, he was clueless, flummoxed, hopelessly out of touch and blamed me. He did speak to the employee and then he fired me, on the phone, at 5:00 am, sobbing hysterically like a little baby. Bottom line, the employee was more valuable to the company than me. I could’ve sued but that’s not who I am and by that time in my life, I was just too exhausted and discouraged. Meanwhile, I have never again heard from my previous boss after I sent the letter and there’s nothing to be done about it. My point is, it was tremendously damaging, when all appeared to be going so well for me after the hideous childhood I endured.

In the past year or so, I’ve begun to realize that due to my childhood experiences of abandonment, several different times I was kicked to the curb, I have unconsciously chosen to buy my way into my family, to somehow validate myself and earn the love, care and respect that every child deserves. I’ve spent thousands of dollars on gifts and handouts to this sorry bunch of fucked up people. I’ve spent my entire adult life being available to them. I’ve flown all over the country to visit them out of obligation, costing me a fortune. And when I say “them”, I’m referring to a ridiculous list of invested relationships as follows: a biological mother, biological father, an adopted father, a step-father, one full sibling, three half siblings, one of whom is in no way blood related to the other two, an ex-stepmother and her husband and his two children (my ex-step-siblings?), two current step-mothers, a step-sister and brother, a host of half-aunts and uncles, and numerous nieces and nephews. I am known to and invested in relationships with all of these people and I am exhausted. I have given and given; I have tried so many things to please these people, I have been the best family member that I can be. But it’s not enough. It’s never been enough. I’ve tried too hard, or not done the right thing, or been selfish in expecting anything from these selfish and damaged people. Many of them suffer from mental illness, addiction, poverty, etc. So I’ve also insulted them by being happy, successful, and “too much”. Too overwhelming, too gregarious, too sympathetic. I’m intimidating, assertive, sometimes aggressive (traits I relied upon to survive), and enviable. There is resentment towards me for making it in this life. For being happily married, for having delightful children, for the material things I earned myself. But there’s no sympathy, no empathy, no fear for my life, no understanding, no support from any of these people. If or when they do check in, it’s clearly a selfish act to assuage their own guilt. They just throw that damn word Love around constantly. I don’t even know what that means. I love 4 people: my husband and my three children. But I don’t love myself. I am loathsome and worthless. My husband and children have suffered the burden of me for so long. I can palpably see and feel their love for me seeping away. I have lost so many friends in the last few years. Me, formerly the social butterfly with BFF’s too numerous to count, all over the country. I’ve been completely ghosted by three longtime close friends. No contact whatsoever, no reply to my request for understanding. I’ve been brutally dumped by other longtime friends who’s bitter words and hateful opinions and misinterpreted actions by me have caused them to lash out at me and accuse me of untruths. But I own all of this because the common denominator is me. I’m not in denial, I am in pain. I am bereft. I trust no one. I’m in serious distress and it takes nothing to send me over the edge.

So at this moment, I’ve isolated myself. I don’t want to do more damage. I want to stop sabotaging myself. I want it all to be over. Is that not a valid case for suicide? Why don’t I deserve peace? Once I’m gone, I’ll never have to suffer the pain that I feel, or the pain I inflict on others. I’ll never have to know. Right now, the guilt I feel overwhelms me almost as much as the depression. So you’re thinking, get help girl! I’ve tried that! I’ve been hospitalized several times. (Once for an impulsive, failed suicide attempt). I’ve taken every medication on the market. I’ve tried ECT. I’ve been in talk therapy for-fucking-ever, I’ve tried self-help methods like meditation, exercise, yoga, books upon books about finding happiness, mindfulness, accepting myself. I’ve talked to my minister. I’ve changed my eating habits, I’ve kept up with my health. I’ve written stories. I’ve volunteered, helping others. What the fuck else am I supposed to do? Even sleep is no escape. I have horrible dreams about all of these things.

Everyone wants to keep me alive. Why? So they don’t have to feel guilty? They certainly don’t want or need me in their lives in the current condition I’m in. So who is the selfish one here? Let me go. Please just let me go. This has gone wrong from the very beginning. Fifty-six years. Just a bad mistake. A selfish, thoughtless act on behalf of young and clueless people. What has been the point? Who cares? I just don’t. Not anymore. I’m conceding ok? Is that ok with you or just another excuse to excoriate me? Leave me alone. Please.

My Epitaph: She Did Her Best

(Note: This essay is based on the following prompt from the online publication http://www.TheCreative.cafe

Crying is all right in its way while it lasts.
But you have to stop sooner or later,
and then you still have to
decide what to do.”

– CS Lewis,
The Silver Chair)

My tears are perpetually conceived in my soul.

I know there were periods in my past where crying was not a daily event (one exception being the torturous years of adolescence where crying daily was mandatory). However, I don’t seem to have any conscious memory of those times. I know they existed because I remember being in awe of the fact that there were no tears one random day. Or the next. But at this juncture, I simply don’t remember a time that existed which didn’t consistently deliver feelings of enough sadness as to cause me to well up. Because that is my life today. That’s all I know.

I know that in other times, entire days would pass without sadness. Sometimes several days. Maybe even weeks. No sadness, no frustration, no hopelessness. No tears. I don’t know why. I mean, I certainly could speculate. Life was good. Life was new and exciting and positive and joyful and different. And I just have this memory of not crying on a daily basis. I long for those days. I wish I knew how to get them back. But again, I don’t know how they started. I just know that those days are gone. That seemingly brief respite from constant pain and sadness is over and I’m back to the familiar, vaguely comforting, daily despondence of my true self. The one that cries every day.

Every teardrop that develops begins somewhere deep inside my soul. And every time I cry I can palpably feel a part of my soul fill up my eyes with the blindness that those first tears bring, then they drop, almost like a raindrop, onto my plump cheeks, and fork off like creeks in different directions, continuing their downward trajectory, gliding past my nose, sometimes dripping into my ears, over my lips, and finally falling off my jaw into God knows what abyss is available to catch them. Maybe into a tissue, to be discarded once dampened beyond use. This tissue, carrying pieces of my soul, thrown into the trash.

Or, barring any method of removal, the tears drop off my jaw and trickle down my neck, gravitate towards my chest, and on and on it goes. Because invariably, I’m still crying. My soul continues to manufacture the tears which follow the same path, essentially threatening death by drowning.

I suppose, eventually, I am able to pull myself together, if only for a short time, and clean myself up. No doubt a lot of the tears have dried onto my skin-is there any hope that they will be absorbed back into my soul for recycling? Or, like the soggy tissue, are they lost forever? And am I doomed to ultimately be rendered soulless? Because that’s how it feels. Every day, every instance of crying throughout the day, and I assure you, it is every single day, I am convinced that I am losing parts of my soul. I am sure that I have become less of myself. I am empty, I am void of positivity, I am losing this battle.

I don’t know what the depth of my soul is; I don’t know the percentage I have lost or what I have left. I don’t know if the soul regenerates. I don’t know any of those things. I just know that I’m feeling more depleted, more hollow, and more obsolete every day. I used to be somebody. I formerly was overflowing with offerings and gifts and genuineness. I was relevant, I was valid. I made people happy, which was where I found my own happiness. But that’s all gone now. I now am only left to burden others with my sadness, my constant tears.

I’ve lost my soul and I’ve lost myself and I no longer exist. And I cry every day, for the loss.

(From the Prompt on theCreative.cafe

Wear Scars

“where I come from
men and women wear scars with pride”

– H. Lyonga, SCARS)

There must be an algorithm that dictates the length of time one needs to be in therapy that is dependent on the following: what age in one’s childhood he first became subjected to emotional and mental abuse; how long he endured the abuse before he was able to escape from its source; and at what age he finally decides to seek therapy to heal the scars that remain. For me, I’ve been in and out of talk therapy for 28 years and my scars healed somewhat, enough so that I was able to call myself “happy”, during which time I had a successful career, good marriage and raised three delightful children.

But now that the career is over and the nest is empty, I’ve noticed some oozing gaps have appeared in my formerly, yet tenuously healed scars. Even as my husband and I are learning and adjusting to the vast changes one goes through upon retirement and saying goodbye to our now adult children, I seem to be digressing dangerously so, to the point that my scars are taking over my psyche and I am very alarmed and frightened. And quite resentful.

The truth is, the older I get, the deeper the scars penetrate and infest, flourishing and thriving against my greatest efforts to mend them back to the point that I can live in relative synchronic co-existence with them. As a young adult, I didn’t know any different, that is, I assumed everyone had inadequate, lousy childhoods in some form or another and that was just the way life is and we all just move on into adulthood, tentatively believing that we made it through relatively unscathed. We’re grown-ups now and we presumably plan to do try to do things differently should we ever become parents. Alternatively, we found our childhood to be so awful that we plan to never, ever become parents, because as I said, we don’t know any different. Or we may be convinced that our own childhood, with all its pain and heartache, was relatively normal so we just get over our sad selves and move on, becoming parents or not.

Emotional scars can lay dormant for years, especially if you’re too busy living, working, socializing, planning, waiting…..waiting for your life plans to come to fruition. But sometimes the plans go awry, things don’t turn out as planned. And you wonder why. Meanwhile, the emotional childhood abuse continues to fester and at some point, you think maybe you want to clear some cobwebs, maybe you should talk to a professional and get your mind right so your plans can fall back into line.

So you begin seeing a therapist. And fucking all hell breaks loose. You find out that you are so unbelievably damaged and you’ve been carrying these hideous scars for years and years-so much wasted time. Is it too late, you ask? Can you fix me, you plead? Thus begins the agonizing commitment to attend therapy until you are able to resolve these issues, heal these scars, and finally make you a whole and worthy person that you never even knew existed. But it’s taking so long! And costing so much! It’s all so painful! And you learn and repeat the newly acquired language of psychobabble. And hopefully, eventually, over time, you feel as though you’re cured, you’re scars are healed, you’ve learned to forgive yourself and others. So you end therapy, feeling confident and purposeful. Your life truly begins. You are successful. You find love and get married. Maybe stepping back into a few sessions with your therapist every now and then, when you experience these big life events. Reassuring yourself that all is still good, the scars are still healed, and you’ve learned so much and maybe even consider yourself a better person for having experienced the childhood you endured. You’re wise, enlightened, you know what not to do.

That’s essentially the experience I had. I married and we happily, willingly, cheerfully, had three children. We worked hard in our careers, we engaged with our children, always conscientious and aware of their lives — they were the center of the universe that was our family, as they should be, because that was our job. We had 18 years to do our job of raising the best children they could be into the best adults they could be, doing the best job that we could. And we succeeded. Beautifully, in fact. My husband was lucky enough to have had a good, solid and happy childhood so he was able to bring all of that to the table. Me, not so much. But what I did bring to the table was reality, preparation for their independence and their future, education on how to cope with difficulties, amongst many other life lessons. And I learned that literally every single moment of my childrens’ lives were teaching moments. And I wanted to see them off into their future with as few scars as possible.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, as I was busy living this life, I was subconsciously observing and absorbing what could have been, what should have been, for my own lost and damaged childhood. At each major juncture of my childrens’ lives, we, as their parents, were able to do the “right” things, the “right” way, relatively speaking of course, because there are many right, and wrong, ways to raise children, but we felt confident that we were doing a good job, mainly because we were constantly aware of them, and their presence in our family. There was, and is, a tremendous amount of love in our family. We all participated equally in being a family that was always filled with love, respect, attention, availability, awareness, concern, trust, discipline and a sense of purity in all these areas. Of course we had issues! God help me, I was on pins and needles the whole time, just positive I was ruining lives pell mell and only when they became adults did I allow myself to be relieved that they made it through in spite of having me as a mother. Dare I say, maybe because I was their mother. I only recently allowed myself a scintilla of credit to their success, which I define as happiness, and moved past the idea that I was a detriment that they were able to overcome.

So back to the oozing scars. Now that I have the time and freedom to relax and rest, my mental health has been rapidly deteriorating, and I believe that the past childhood emotional abuse is pushing, pushing, pushing me towards utter insanity. I now have such a keen awareness of all that I was denied, all the loss and abandonment that I endured, all that I have never truly resolved even though I’ve been trying for close to 30 years. Ignorance was bliss for so long. I was better off not knowing what I never received and deserved. But now it’s too late, and the scars are opening up and swallowing me whole. It seems that no amount of therapy or medication or shock treatments or removing toxic people from my life or any number of things I’ve tried to get better is going to work. I, along with my hideous scars, have become that toxic person that no one can deal with. I feel alone in my misery and as helpless and hopeless as I’ve ever been. But damaged though my mind is, I am still able to constantly and consistently love my husband and children and we are still a family. They see through the ugly scars and love me all the more for it. I’m still fighting for my life and in that regard, I am indeed not alone. We are a team and we are determined to knit and suture and maybe even eradicate those scars. That’s what every damaged child inside of so many of us deserve. God help us all, because there are many of us who will never heal. Please let me be one that does, before it’s too late.