I'm not saying this just to be heard. I'm not saying this because I need attention. I'm saying this because I need some personal, private space to put my thoughts sometimes, and this is my space.
I'm going through kind of a crossroads mentally right now.
I've been through many different therapists across, oh, four different states. But I'm finally at a place here in Boise, at this point in time, where I feel ready to carefully navigate my way through my awful past and maybe come to some sort of terms with it.
Right now, I have a great therapist. She's really amazing. She gets me, she understands me, she's comforting and soothing - she hugs me after a painful session! - and I think she is the one who has the right tools to get me through what I need to do, without completely driving me over the brink of insanity in the process.
Because that could definitely happen.
I've seen my psychiatrist at least a dozen times, probably more, in year and a half we've lived in Idaho. At every single visit, she's changed and tweaked my psychoactive meds, so that they're carefully in tune with what I need. She's still doing that, even just today, so we're treading carefully in my therapy sessions.
As of yesterday, we're using a tool called EMDR, which stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing Therapy.
It varies by therapist, but they basically do something to (with?) you that allows you both to work through some difficult and painful memories and then translate that to a better thought, a better idea in your head, that is much more peaceful to live with than the harmful You can visit that site I linked for a much better understanding, I'm sure, but that's kinda how I describe it.
My therapist, Terrie, asked me at the beginning of yesterday's EMDR session to tell me what it felt like when my mother had just died.
I told her that it felt like I was alone in a long, dark, empty corridor, calling for help.
And no one ever came.
They never did. No one ever came to help me, to comfort me, to love me, even to tell me WTF had just happened, to make any kind of sense of things in a way that a 7-year-old kid could begin to understand.
They still haven't come.
So fast-forward to just now. Rob and I were talking about a high school friend of mine, and her parents.
I realized, through the course of the conversation, that both of her parents - though divorced - always attended every concert in which she performed.
Every. Single. One.
And then I thought back to who came to my concerts.
I remember being dropped off.
More than once, when I was dropped off, I was very late and blubbering in tears.
And more than once, when I arrived late in tears, my whole chorus was lined up, and sometimes the whole band, and sometimes the whole orchestra too, to go on stage, and everyone would be there watching me arrive late in tears, as I tried to gather myself enough to appear and perform on stage.
Those are miserable memories.
It was embarrassing, and awful, and I would have given anything not to be there at that moment.
But not only that!
I couldn't remember any single concert or event where I was performing, when someone showed up for me.
The last time I had any kind of audience was when I was the Caterpillar in a fifth-grade production of Alice in Wonderland. My stepmother made me my costume, which admittedly was awesome and practically stole the show when I appeared onstage, but I suspect she came to see the costume in action rather than support my performance.
I was in multiple concerts for chorus in 6th grade.
I was in multiple concerts for chorus in 7th grade.
I was in multiple concerts for chorus in 8th grade.
I was in multiple concerts for chorus in 9th grade.
I was in multiple concerts for chorus in 10th grade.
I was in multiple concerts for chorus in 11th grade.
I was in multiple concerts for chorus in 12th grade.
No one ever came for me.
It felt exactly like I was calling for help in an empty corridor.
It's a hollow feeling.
It feels pretty shitty, actually.
So there we are.
That's where I am right now.