I asked my husband for help

I can deal with the physical “stuff” by myself. The emotional stuff this deep is apparently beyond me on my own.

It’s deeply embarrassing that I’m a woman of 50+ years who’s been fighting my kid crapola for almost my entire life and this is nearly the last step — and I can’t do it alone.

I have no choice. I HAVE to do this. Not just clean the physical house, but deal with what got me here. And that’s very, very scary. I have run, suppressed, finessed, lied, almost ANYTHING to avoid others seeing how deep the wounding goes. You think I talk about deep emotions easily? Hah! Threw you a bone, and you fell for it, just like all the shrinks, counselors, “friends,” etc. always have. NO ONE sees this part of me and frankly I rarely in the past have admitted it even existed.

I am deeply afraid. I’m afraid of myself. No I’m terrified. This stuff is so old, so deep and it is NOT rational. I have to cope with this because if I don’t, what happens in 10 years or so when I start to lose my rational self? I don’t even want to think about that!

I’m in the bizarre position of having fought as long as I can remember against acting crazy, limiting how much the crapola took over — and cleaning up my living room has me seriously doubting my sanity and is pushing my self control???

If this were an Ibsen play? I’d enjoy it a lot more. Most of my life I’ve said I didn’t want to end up being one of Ibsen’s characters. But I guess we’re not always given a choice?

I won the part, whether I want it now, or not. . . . oh goodie.

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2 responses to “I asked my husband for help

  1. Since you brought up the imagery of the theater, let’s use it. When we are deep in our hurt it is like sitting in the front row… close up on detail but difficult to get the whole picture. We become swallowed up in the scene and every off-script breath and squeak of a shoe draws us in deeper. We become trapped in the detail.

    If we move back a few rows we can still see the detail, perhaps less intensely, but we gain the advantage of perspective. We really aren’t on the stage or part of the play. We know this intellectually. But the details grip us and we are still deep in the scene. We cannot escape the impact.

    Moving back half way in the theater rows we can see the scene but it is now fully recognizable as a staged affair. Written long ago and staged just now… just for us. When we look around the theater we notice that we are alone in the large room. It often makes us aware of our loneliness. This is the usual and often most comfortable place to view memories… perspective with distance yet still full of more distant emotional impact.

    If we were to move to the back row we would see the insignificance of the play, the memory when compared to the reality of the day you are looking down onto the stage. But the play goes on and we know the players and we know the plot and we know how it ends… or rather, how it doesn’t end.

    We see the doors at the rear and just know that if we were ever to cure ourselves we would walk out those doors and never come back. The play would become a memory of a memory… the pain would be as distant as that theater growing smaller in the rear view mirror.

    Every time I go through those doors it seems to be to get popcorn or a soda or some candy… and when I find myself back inside the theater I sometimes remember to sit in the middle row. Sometimes in the back row…

    But far too often I find myself in the front row all over again. It takes time to recognize where I sat myself and it takes the force of will to work myself back from the front row yet again.

    Exhausted, worn out, bone tired and disgusted at myself I know that as long as I want to live… and I do want to live (suicidal ideations are not about death but at certain moments death seems to be the only way to escape the pain)… I summon up the strength to start removing myself from the scene again by moving back to regain perspective…

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