This week has been a surprisingly difficult one. While last week was filled with successes, this one seems to be littered with missteps and fuck-ups. The aggravating part is that a lot of the stress is self-perpetuating(isn’t it always?) and it’s becoming a cycle that I can’t pull myself from.
In therapy, I’ve been vacillating between indifferent confusion and core wound weeping. A deeply rooted sense of abandonment keeps surfacing in waves of self-loathing and rage. I am so angry at everyone, everything, and, of course, myself. It’s so cliched it makes me nauseous. My therapist asks why I can’t allow myself to have this core wound, why I have to justify it or diminish it.
Because it’s so INDULGENT. It’s so WHITE and AMERICAN and PRIVILEGED. It infuriates me that I haven’t moved past this bullshit already. And yet, this core wound is the oldest thing I maintain. Most of my childhood is a blur. I don’t have a lot of memories or mementos from then, and everything/everyone else from then has changed. This core wound is all I have of me. When all the tattoos, fat, grey hair, sagging breasts, and stretch marks are taken away… it’s all I have. I feel like all I am is this pain surrounded by bones.
I texted F about the therapy session of straight weeping. She understands and says “I can’t even remember what consistent normal FELT like.” Agreed. Normal seems so far away. Not even that. I spent most of the end of college trying to be a functioning human being after my nervous breakdown/emotional break. Then I got to that point. So slowly. So surprisingly. Then, it was just about not losing my mind again. Now that I’ve built up the tools to be able to fight back, this core wound reappears. It hisses and seethes. It sabotages. All I can hear is “You will NEVER be normal. You wasted your life and now you are a fat, sad sack of skin. You are nothing because you achieve nothing. You are a hideous monster. You are walking disgust.” Each day looms, building horror on the horizon.
There are good things. There are mornings with Shufs, those amazing hours where I don’t feel so monstrous. There is the promise of a Spring and Summer with a garden. Maybe a sunburn and a proliferation of freckles as I run around at my job. Buoyant moments.