I needed to do an update on my MacBook and when I looked at the storage option, the majority of it was being taken up by my massive amount of photos. I transfer all my photos from my phone onto my computer and organize it all into folders based on the event, person, place, etc.
I realized that I really needed to go though them and purge to clear up some much needed space. One of the albums was all of the photos of when my exboyfriend was in the hospital. I documented everything- the tubes and machines, the ventilator, the collage of pictures and letters I hung up on the wall, the flowers my sister brought to cheer us all up, the mural painted above the bed…and many of his unconscious body. I know that probably violated some kind of law, but I needed proof to show him when he woke up. And I did show him. I showed him the photo from the day his parents arrived and his dad stood over his body, his head bowed in despair. I showed him the photo of the dozens of wires connected to his head to test his brain activity. I showed him the photo of our baby niece in the waiting room wearing her “world’s best uncle shirt”. I showed him all the photos and it did not have the impact I wanted. I expected him to be horrified, to cry, to remember anything from that month. But he didn’t. He said it felt like he was looking at photos of someone else.
My therapist asked me why I still kept the photos on my computer. I didn’t have a great answer except that they provided some kind of validation of what I (and be) went through. She gently pointed out that I did not need the photos for him anymore because he is gone. They are of no use to him or his family anymore. And I am sure that his parents can no more forget those memories when they close their eyes and think about them than I can. I realized those pictures aren’t serving any purpose anymore for me. They just bring back pain to look at them.
So, without over thinking it, I deleted them all. And I didn’t stop there. I went through all my pictures and erased all of our vacation photos (minus any of just him or the two of us) and all the photos of his family. I have no relationship with them at all and I know I never will again. His sister’s children are years older now and probably don’t even remember me. I hope that they remember him. I hope his mother still has photos of him in their house and they talk about him and reminisce about him the way my family does.
I don’t need the photos of that terrible time to remember it. I couldn’t forget it if I wanted to. And when I think about him, I want to remember happy times, not traumatic ones. I actually went even a step further and erased photos of my father after he had a stroke and some pictures from when he was actively drinking and damaged things in our house (holes in walls, broken vases, etc).
I have albums and albums full of happy things- my beautiful nieces, my cute house, my decorated classroom, my great friends. It was time to make space on my hard drive for more positive, future memories instead of letting bad, sad ones take up so much room. Now, if only it was as easy to erase them from my own memory as it was to remove them from my computer….
Like most teachers, I tend to kick off my summer with ambition plans. THIS summer was finally going to be the one where I focused on my health and practiced self-care. I was going to make myself a little daily plan that included hitting the gym and eating well. I was going to read a ton and walk a lot and go in my pool and see my friends for lunch and do some small house updates, etc.
Well, to say that things did not go as planned would literally be the understatement of the freaking century. I am not a person who does well without routine and since I didn’t have a job to wake up for (or kids to take care of or really any other responsibilities besides feeding my cats), I ended up lounging around a lot. And then that turned into staying home more. And then THAT turned into me getting more anxious when I DID have to go somewhere. Only a few weeks into my “relaxing, self-care, healthy me! summer” and I told my therapist that I thought I needed to go back on an antidepressant. This was not a shock to either of us because my issues with agoraphobia started to spiral out of control in the spring, after two years of covid giving me a completely valid excuse to not have to go anywhere. I guess I convinced myself that I was going to use my summer off to work on getting better and expand my comfort zone, but then the opposite happened.
I went to my doctor and she prescribed me Prozac. I have taken a few different medications over the past two decades, so I was open to trying something new. I have a lot of medication anxiety (which is the literal definition of irony when you need medication because of having anxiety). But I knew that I needed to go on something and I accepted that. The first couple of days were fine. I had a little dry mouth and lost my appetite completely. I can definitely afford to lose some weight, so this side effect wasn’t a deal breaker.
After only being on the medication for a week, my sister left on a four day vacation with her family that was about a five to six hour car ride away from the town we both live in. I was anxious about her leaving. She has always been my “person” (or if you are a Friends fan…my “lobster”), so I was uncomfortable about her being so far away, but I tried not to burden her with my fears because I was happy she was taking a well deserved vacation with my nieces and brother-in-law.
She left and I COMPLETELY LOST MY SHIT. I honestly don’t even know what happened. I have had panic attacks obviously, but they usually hit and then subside. I have had lingering anxiety, but even that eventually has a period of relief. I had what felt like panic attacks 24 hours a day the whole time she was gone. I have never experienced anything like it. I completely shut down and wouldn’t talk to anyone. I could not get off my couch. There were times I wanted the blanket off my legs and I couldn’t do it- I couldn’t muster the energy to peel the blanket off of myself. I didn’t eat, hardly drank water, and just felt like I was having heart palpitations. I obsessively thought about needing to go to a mental institution or the hospital. I desperately wanted her to come home. No one else could soothe me at all, not for lack of trying. I felt like I was crawling out of my own skin and I was terrified about what was happening to me.
I called my doctor, who told me to stop the Prozac. I somehow survived the weekend and my sister came home. I thought that as soon as she was home, I would immediately feel better. I didn’t. It’s been another week now and I am just starting to feel a little better. I still am having SO much anxiety and am taking Xanax several times a day. I have had a bunch of extra appointments with my psychologist. I even went back to the doctor and unfortunately, my primary care physician was on vacation and I saw another doctor, who told me to (and I literally quote) “bake a cake for your sister and read The Secret” and then she patted my arm and said, “you feel better, right? Ok good”.
I desperately tried to find a new psychiatrist and it was SO hard. It really made me realize how messed up our mental health care system is. And I am privileged enough to have health insurance and the internet and the ability to make phone calls. My appointment isn’t until Tuesday and I am just trying to make it through each day until then.
I don’t know if it was a negative reaction to the medication or just complete fear of being without my sister, but I was genuinely so scared and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. I still do not feel right. I am still so anxious. It is not completely crippling like it was last week, but it is there- steady and festering. I am scared about what to do next. My mother came to my house to sit next to me and make me shower and I remember saying to her that I promise I would never hurt myself, but that I can now understand why people do. I wanted the panic and fear and pain to end. I still do. I literally felt that I was going to die.
I feel like this all just sounds so stupid and is just not capturing how bad I felt. But I guess those who know, know. I still don’t feel like myself. I worry about the damage I did to my relationship with my completely normal and not mentally ill AT ALL boyfriend, who was so sweet and caring and probably shit scared. I know the feeling of helplessness that comes when you are the one having to deal with this. I am sure he sees me differently now. I worry about the stress I caused my family, the burden I have placed on my sister, the guilt that I have or will negatively influence my sweet little nieces.
I hate this. If I won the billion dollar mega millions lottery yesterday, I would trade the winning ticket to make this go away forever. Every shooting star, ever birthday cake candle, every time the clock shows 11:11, I make the same wish: please make my anxiety go away. I’m so tired. I’m so tired of it. I realized this week that I have suffered from anxiety and panic and agoraphobia for almost HALF OF MY LIFE now.
So, my only plan now is to try to stay busy, make myself eat and drink enough to stay alive and make it to this appointment with the new psychiatrist. I’m trying not to be too hard on myself. I keep seeing my friends’ pictures on social media of them being at the beach or on vacation or at a concert and I have shut most of them out and when they ask me what I did over the summer, I am not sure if I should be like “had a total nervous breakdown”?? Maybe I should actually read The Secret and learn to bake so I can just say I did that (I kid). I have always been my own worst enemy so I am trying to just go easy on myself, but it is really hard sometimes to just hate the mental illness and not actually hate me.
When I think of you now, so much relates to time. Even from the beginning of our relationship, time was a factor. How many days would pass before we saw each other? How many days until you moved in with me? And then…how many days were you sober, how many days were in the coma, how many days were you in the hospital? As an English teacher, it is ingrained in me to find symbolism. The object that would most symbolize you would be a wrist watch. Very fitting considering how much you loved your Omega.
But time is different now when it comes to you. It is no longer days. After you died, it became weeks and then months and then finally…a year. I was dreading February so much. November always was my least favorite month because of losing my grandparents and getting divorced. February tried to take that title over.
With the date you died looming, my emotions were all over the place. But, strangely, on that day I felt so little. I had grieved so much for so long, it felt anticlimactic. I slept a lot, which indicated I was sad, but I planned to look through my “M box”- a tote of things I had packed up when we broke up and then stuffed new things into after you passed away. I told myself all year long I would look at it on the anniversary of your death (there needs to be a better word than “anniversary” for something sad). I finally did open the box at night and looked at photos and items that belonged to the dog and so, so many cards. It was sweet and I felt nostalgic, but I was not overcome with sadness like I thought I would be. I talked with my therapist about it afterwards and she thinks because I finally got answers about how you died, I had more closure than I thought I had.
A week or so later, my sister and I went out to dinner for your birthday. You would have been 39. I took her to “our” restaurant, which I had not been to since we broke up. It actually felt like a celebration. Again, instead of feeling sad, I was happy to remember you and all the good memories of our life together. It really felt like turning a corner. Being able to think about you and focusing on your life instead of you being sick or drunk or dead. I really celebrated your life on your birthday and it felt…right.
I will ALWAYS be sad about you being gone. It is just a part of who I am now. But, February is almost over and it wasn’t what I thought it would be. I finally felt a sense of peace, of being able to move on, of being able to balance grieving your loss and remembering happier times with you.
There is a quote by Robert Frost that I always have up in my classroom: “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life. It goes on.” This past year, I have missed you, I have been depressed, I have been heartbroken, I have been SO angry, but my life has also gone on. I have been overjoyed, I have been happy, and I have fallen deeper in love with a wonderful man. I would like to think it is what you would have wanted for me.
My love, this is it. The blog I never wanted to write. I have put it off so many times, dreading having to do it, making it real. You’re gone. I can’t bring myself to even say the word “dead” out loud. Not about you. It has been six weeks now. How is that even possible? How is any of this possible?
The moment I saw your mother’s email, I knew. I feel like I shook my head for hours, for days. No. No. No. It can’t be real. I just wanted to deny it. If I didn’t accept it, it couldn’t be true. After everything you (we) went through, how could this be? It was the week before your 38th birthday.
I have struggled with the end. How long were you alone? Did you suffer? Feel pain? Know it was coming? Were you drunk? Were you going through withdrawal? WHAT HAPPENED? I’m grateful suicide was ruled out almost immediately. I wouldn’t have believed that anyway. I feel actual pain in my chest when I think about you lying there on the floor. I drove by your apartment that Friday night. Were you alive then? I have tortured myself about that. I know there was nothing I could have done to save you or stop it, but why was I so compelled to drive there that night? That can’t just be a coincidence, can it. I cry every single time I think of you being alone. No one should be alone at the end of their life. You didn’t deserve that.
I don’t know how to accept that I will never hear your voice or see your face again. How ironic that only months ago, I dreaded running into you around town. But then I saw you in December and we talked and it was just…nice. It was familiar. You were not 100% yourself, I could tell that, but you seemed okay. You were supposed to be okay. After being so sick for so long, that was supposed to be the ending. You were supposed to get sober and be healthy and okay. And now you are gone.
I am so angry with your family. But then I think about what they have lost and my heart aches for them. You told me so many times you didn’t want a memorial. But they didn’t even do an obituary. It is like they came up here, cleaned out your apartment, took your truck, and poof- you didn’t exist anymore. Nothing was allowed on social media, people wrote happy birthday messages to you days later and didn’t even know you weren’t alive to read them. “Hope you had an amazing day!!” My heart hurts. I am in so much pain. Everyone kept saying to me, “you did everything you could for him. You saved his life many times. You shouldn’t feel guilty. There’s nothing you could have done.” I know that, but I also don’t know that.
We were together for nine years. So many good times. So many difficult times. I loved you. I know you loved me. I picture your hands. All the times over nine years that they grabbed my butt. That they held our niece. That they pet our dog. That they played with the cat. That they flipped burgers on the grill. That they poured another drink. That I held so tightly while you were on life support in the hospital in a coma. What was the point of all of that? I still suffer from going through you being sick…and for what? You just being gone less than two years later? How can that be?
I know you suffered, my love. I know the depression was so dark and deep inside of you that you couldn’t see the light on many days. I know you didn’t want to drink, even as you fell further into the addiction. I know you wanted to be better- for yourself, for me.
I have one of your last voicemails saved on my phone. It was from after you got out of the hospital. You apologized over and over and said, “someday I’m going to send you a letter making amends.” I believed that. I wanted to forgive you, for both of us. Now I will never get that letter. So much is left unsaid between us.
I still just can’t believe you are gone. I read article after article about the stages of grief. I desperately search for anything I can interpret as a sign from you. I feel so alone. I cried nonstop the whole first week and every day since. The sadness is physical. I forget for a bit and then remember you are gone and it is like a pain in my chest. I sleep all the time. I feel numb and then I feel guilty for feeling numb. I’m angry at everyone for the littlest things. I just don’t know what to do.
Sometimes I feel like I don’t have the right to feel all of this. I let you go. I saved myself. Maybe I could have done more? How was I supposed to know this would happen, though? You were supposed to get better. Friends and my therapist “weren’t surprised” that you passed away. “You had to have known this was going to happen.” No. No, I didn’t. I really, truly didn’t. You were so strong, you survived so much. People like my dad have lived for decades with alcoholism. 37. You helped throw me the most amazing 40th birthday party and you will never turn 40. Or 39. Or even 38. How is that possible?
I’m so sorry, my love. I always cared, I never stopped. In my heart, I truly believe you knew that. I just could not watch you self-destruct anymore. There’s so many things I want to talk to you about, to tell you, and now I will never have the chance.
I used to be a huge Garth Brooks fan and I just heard a song that I haven’t listened to in many, many years. It is called “Unanswered Prayers” and the lyrics include the following lines:
“Sometimes I thank God For unanswered prayers Remember when you’re talkin’ To the man upstairs That just because he doesn’t answer doesn’t mean he don’t care ‘Cause some of God’s greatest gifts Are unanswered prayers”
I am not religious at all, but I can appreciate the meaning of this song. Sometimes the thing we want the most is not what is best for us. I don’t really believe that “everything happens for a reason”, but I do think that there is a reason for everything.
When my exboyfriend was sick and his alcoholism was at its worst, I hoped and wished for him to get better so that we could have a future together. I do not really pray to god, but I do talk to my Mama (my deceased grandmother with whom I was very, very close). I remember pleading with her to save his life, to help him survive the coma, to help him get better.
The most important thing at the time was his health and our relationship- and my feelings- took a backseat for a long time. But that was going on long before he got so sick. His problems, his addiction, his depression was always at the forefront. I would ask my Mama to help him, to help us as a couple. But that never happened. He never got help and the consequences were devastating.
I know now that my Mama was not ignoring my requests. She was simply giving me what I needed, which was to NOT give me what I wanted. If I had stayed with my ex, I would have been stuck in his sober/relapse cycle for my whole life. And even if he did get sober, I would have just been waiting with baited breath for him to drink. I would have been suspicious every time he stumbled over a word. That is no way to live- for me or for him. My Mama gave me the opposite of what I thought I wanted and I ended up with failure, but freedom. I realize now that is what I needed more than saving my relationship.
And after the pain and suffering and excruciating loss came something unexpected…a new relationship. One that is light and healthy and equal and secure. I never thought I would be with someone who took care of me. I have never been in a relationship that didn’t include drama and arguing and codependency.
If my “prayers” had been answered by me asking for the wrong things, I know that I would not be happy right now. I believe that it was a gift to NOT get what I thought I wanted, because I know, without a doubt, that I am exactly where I am supposed to be and with who I am meant to be with.
My soul and my heart have been CRAVING to write a blog entry…my brain on the other hand, has been getting in the way. Every time I sit down to begin writing, I just feel so overwhelmed.
Ironically, leading up to the one year “anniversary” (can’t there be a different word for acknowledging a date that is bad???!!) of my ex-boyfriend being put into a coma, I was doing pretty okay. March 15th loomed, but I felt like I was in a good place. I decided rather than allowing myself to wallow in nostalgia, that I instead would try remind myself of how far I had come during the past 365 days. And I really have come so far. I currently have virtually no contact with him. Even better, since my father has been released from the hospital, he has maintained sobriety. It is crazy to think that I have no active alcoholics in my day to day life, and although I know that can change when it comes to my dad, I am enjoying it while I can.
I am also so in love. It is still really hard for me to write about him…I don’t feel ready to share him with the “virtual world”, especially since our relationship is pretty private in “real life”. I know as time goes on, I will write about him more and more, but for now all I can say is he is absolutely wonderful and treats me so amazingly well. I am so happy with him being a part of my life. I was fully prepared to be single for a very, very long time after going through what I did with my ex, but I guess it is true what people say about finding love when you are not looking for it and least expect it.
What did make March 15th a sad day for me was knowing how much my ex is still suffering and struggling. After everything he went through, he is still not doing well. I last heard from him a couple of months ago via text and he is dealing with a lot of mental health issues, as well as continuing to drink. I honestly can say I do not feel any responsibility for him at all, but that does not mean I do not want him to be okay. I will always worry about him and I truly want the best for him. Looking back, his hospitalization, infidelity and alcoholism was the hardest thing I have ever had to go through, but the fact of the matter is that I did get through it. I did and finally broke the cycle of codependency in my life. I won’t turn out like my mother and although it took me eight years to do it, I am proud of myself that I did.
So, things were pretty calm…and then this virus and quarantine happened. Luckily, everyone I know is healthy, which I am so thankful for considering my sister is twelve weeks pregnant and my father’s health is very compromised. The high school school where I work has shut down for two weeks (and I assume it will end up being longer), and I am doing distance teaching with my 11th grade English students. It has only been a couple of days, but so far so good. I am trying to be very optimistic for them, because this is such a scary time for all of us. I worry that being quarantined and not really being able to go anywhere is going to trigger an agoraphobic episode for me, especially living alone. I am trying to be proactive by staying busy around the house, walking, and doing schoolwork. The only place I go is my sister’s house, which is two miles away. This makes me feel like kind of a bad person in a way, but I am so relieved not to be stuck in the house with my ex-boyfriend during this time. It is hard at times being alone, but I cannot imagine how stressful it would have been still living with him, confined to the house, with him drinking and behaving the way he was.
This is just so unprecedented and frightening, I keep thinking I am going to wake up tomorrow and will be able to go back to school and teach like normal. I am just going to do what everyone else is doing and take things as they come. It is not easy to live that way when you struggle with an anxiety disorder, but this is a good lesson for me about not being able to control everything. In fact, I think that is what this year taught me the most…that no matter how hard I try, most things are out of my control.
I have always believed that people show love in different ways. I love mailing greeting cards for every occasion possible…it is one way I let the people I care about know that I am thinking of them.
During the 41 days my father was in the hospital and nursing home and ever since he got home a week ago, my mother has been glued to his side. Without knowing it, both my sister and I spoke to our respective therapists about my mother’s weird devotion to him. He has treated her so badly for so many years, it is hard to understand why she even cares about what happens to him.
However, my sister and I were at the hospital and nursing home all the time, too- even when he had psychosis and was acting so horribly. We brought him milkshakes and food he liked. My sister brought her toddler to visit “Papa”. We basically all put our lives on hold to take care of him. Clearly this is learned behavior because I did the same thing when my exboyfriend was in the hospital for 28 days…I sat by his side, putting my life on hold.
I have never doubted that my father loved me (and my mother or sister). I never doubted my exboyfriend loved me either. They both just had such a hard time showing it because of their addictions to alcohol.
My dad showed me love by providing for our family, for making sure my sister and I had every opportunity possible, including going to college. He showed love by making sure we had a beautiful home. He showed love by buying my mother, sister and me matching bracelets for Christmas one year. He showed love by building me a dollhouse that I can pass down to my niece. He showed love by crying when I told him I was miserable and getting divorced. He showed love by helping me with my mortgage for the summer so I wouldn’t have to worry about money after my boyfriend moved out abruptly.
My exboyfriend showed me love by supporting me working through my anxiety. He showed me love by convincing me to give up a summer job that made me unhappy. He showed me love by getting me “just because” flowers. He showed me love by sending me cards, because he knows I love getting mail. He showed me love by embracing my sister and loving our niece. He showed me love by caring about my mother.
Neither of these two men loved me in the ways that I necessarily wanted or needed, but they showed me love in the way THEY knew how and I try to be appreciate of that. I am very happy right now to be with someone who is able to show me love in the way that I need (physical affection, open communication, security) and who accepts my love in the way I give it.
I got a notification from WordPress that it was my seven year anniversary of when I began this blog. I decided to go back to my very first post, which was on January 17, 2013.
I am not really sure where to begin, so I will just start writing and see where it takes me…
I am in my 30s and have read pretty much everything ever published about being the child of an alcoholic. I know all about the roles (I am a hero), the shame, the dysfunction, the warnings…
Well, not much, yet EVERYTHING has changed…I am now in my 40s, my dad is still a drunk and I can now add a very long, very dysfunctional relationship with an alcoholic to my resume. I became the dreaded cliche- the daughter of an alcoholic who ends up dating an alcoholic. The only silver lining to that was that I did not marry him.
My father has been in the hospital or a rehabilitation/nursing home since Christmas Eve. He suffered through a coma and once he was well enough to be moved physically, he went through a mental psychosis, caused by withdrawal or the sedatives. He was irate, hateful, violent, and confused. He thought he was at McDonald’s, he flicked off my two year old niece and said “fuck you” to her when she said goodbye to him, he thought another patient was my mother and yelled at her all day for ignoring him, he believed everything was a conspiracy against him, he blamed my mother, sister and me for “doing this to him”, he asked what plane I took to get there when I live ten miles away, he refused to eat..I could go on and on- his behavior was incredibly disturbing and upsetting.
He seems to be doing a little better with his mental facilities, but physically is very weak and will be moving to a rehab center again tonight. So, now we are up to two different hospitals, two different rehabilitation centers, at least a dozen different doctors and more nurses than I can count. It is exhausting.
My therapist AND my sister’s therapist asked why we go visit him so often, especially when he is being so nasty and verbally abusive towards us. I honestly do not have an answer for that. We have tolerated his behavior for so long. I think a lot of it is feeling like we need to be there for my mother, but I cannot and will not ever understand her loyalty or sense of responsibility towards him. It has just been a very stressful beginning to the new year, after what was arguably the worst year of my life.
Speaking of which, my ex (the above mentioned alcoholic and subject of MANY of my blogs) decided this would be the opportune time to try to reinsert himself back into my life. After not hearing from him for months (at my request), he texted me asking about my father. I contemplated for a while how to handle it and then decided maybe he was just being nice. I gave him some details about my dad and nothing about myself. He basically took the opportunity to fill me in on his life (which only made me pity him) and then proceeded to keep texting me until I had to kindly ask him to stop.
SO much has happened during the past seven years- it is impossible to sum up. Yet, that famous quote is eerily accurate: “the more things change, the more they are the same.”
I hated 2019. Like DESPISED it. In March, my boyfriend of nine years went through alcohol withdrawal and was put in a medically induced coma on a breathing tube and ventilator. It lasted 17 extremely long days. His 28 day hospital stay resulted in his (sort-of) recovery, but the end of our relationship. I was with him the whole time and I feel like I will never get over the trauma of seeing the man I love in that condition. However, I was finally starting to feel a little better this month…I got through Thanksgiving and could see the end of the year finally approaching…a fresh, new start.
And then my father was put into a medically induced coma on a breathing tube and ventilator last Thursday. What. The. Actual. Hell? How do two people that I am very close with, the two men in my life, BOTH end up in comas within the same year??? Thankfully, my dad was removed from the sedation and the breathing tube was removed last night and he seems do be doing ok. Yesterday was touch and go and in the morning, his condition was bad enough for a palliative nurse to speak to us about a DNR order and “quality of life” concerns.
I just can’t believe it. I feel like I keep saying that over and over. How did this happen to TWO people? In ONE year? Six more hours until this horrible, traumatic, heartbreaking, life-changing year is over and I can’t wait.
I came across a website recently, http://www.lisaoliveratherapy.com, and I have found it to be SO inspirational. She is a therapist who writes so elegantly, but also her messages are so relatable. I am still having a very difficult time “letting go”, not only of my exboyfriend, but also of the entire traumatic experience I went through with him.
In this blog, she writes about how we sometimes identity with our hurt to the point where we “become” it and begin to over-identify with it. I definitely have a tendency to do this. During my childhood and teenage years, I was the “girl with the crazy abusive alcoholic father”. I started having problems with anxiety when I was in my 20s (which I am still dealing with) and I took on the identity of the “girl with anxiety who couldn’t get on a plane or drive far”. After my marriage ended at age 31, I became the “girl who went through a terrible divorced’. And now I have become the “girl whose sat at the bedside of her alcoholic boyfriend of eight years while he was in a coma for 17 days, even after she found out he was lying and cheating on her, and even though she saved his life, his parents still treated her as a scapegoat.”
I go down these rabbit holes where I become the tragedy…it defines my life, my identity, my day to day routine. I have an obsessive tendency and I must have said, “I don’t understand why his parents treated me the way they did” like 2,000 times over the past six months. It is like I can’t get over it…I don’t know HOW to get over it and there’s a weird tiny part of me that doesn’t want to get over it. I am not saying that I like to feel like a victim, I truly don’t, but I desperately want some kind of acknowledgment from his parents for the sacrifices I made for their son. My friends advise me that I need to let it go, that not every situation ends with closure and I know they are right. My exboyfriend tells me all the time that he knows how much I did for him (and the fact that we are still in contact will be the subject of my next blog…still really struggling with enforcing boundaries), but I feel like I deserve more.
Unbeknownst to me, he contacted his parents and told them that the rift between them and me was negatively affecting his recovery and he threatened to cease contact with them if they did not try to rectify things with me. This is the complete opposite of what I want and I was very upset when he told me this. But of course, I got an email from his father a couple of days later saying that he told them I think they hate me and they don’t and they also don’t “hold a grudge against me” (what the actual fuck? what possible grudge could they even HAVE against me????). His dad proceeded to write that all they care about is their son’s recovery and that the day he walked into the ICU and saw him in the coma was the worst day of his life. All the email did was make me more angry. There was no mention of me at all (and I do truly understand all they care about is him, but COME ON…throw me a bone). Does his father think it wasn’t the worst day of my life?? At first, they were not even going to travel to come here and then it took them two days to get to the hospital.
I know for myself that I have to find a way to stop making my whole life and identity about this and him. I am preventing myself from moving on, but there is something safe about that…like that expression, “the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t”. I am terrified about dating or meeting someone new. I cannot imagine being in a relationship with anyone but him. And if I am honest with myself (which is why I started this blog), part of me feels unlovable and fears no one else will want me. I feel so broken, so damaged. On the surface, I look like I have it all together, but inside I am a freaking mess. Who would want that? And even if I found someone, how will I ever trust them? I am holding on to all of this because I am scared to move on and as long as I can wrap myself in trauma and continue identifying as “the girl”…, no one else can hurt me.
Anxious ACOA 