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rubbish. i have to buy groceries.
isolation worsening. got myself to stammtisch thing last night, faked a bit of cheer, sat next to jp and told him I wasnt doing well but he’s all cheerleader, live-your-life. whatever. I started crying there, fortunately dried it up. today the phone annoyed me, w called a few times but what would I say to him? he asks crap like ‘how are you’ when he knows I have no answer for that question. or he wants to talk about his work stuff and is all happy or whatever and there’s no room for me anywhere. if I’m so bloody valuable as his freaking coach and confidante, he could have thought about that earlier. (more…)
Thriver aka marj writes here about her mother and the absolute lack of attachment.
I see that in myself. I have this pattern of getting up the courage to contact someone with whom I’ve experienced positive contact. Then I don’t return their calls or e-mails. Sounds like that could be an attachment thing. I don’t know how that works.
Some of my emotional parts are super-capable of high performance in healthful senses. But whatever’s responsible for attachment … is hiding under the bed.
The alum magazine for the women’s institute of my alma mater came yesterday.
Flipped through the class notes section. Amid updates about books published, companies run and countries analyzed, a woman wrote that she had two little boys. She said she would welcome tips on how to make time stand still and how to simplify life. She sounded really overwhelmed.
Flash back to all the frustrated looks, exhausted groans, tired sighs my mother directed at my brothers. And how much they suffered, how open their wounds still are.
My mother never took on adult responsibility. She was so angry that I held her to the standards of, well, a parent. But we needed her as a mother, and she wasn’t there for us. Sure, she did a lot. Diaper changing and breastfeeding, that she managed. As soon as a baby was out of diapers and weaned, she got another one, and the old baby was turned out as a stray for the oldest kids to foster. Am I really supposed to rise up and call her blessed for the years she sat in an armchair on an oxytocin high?
Last year, the boss decided that I should go out and sell. Yeah, this grey-suited stutterer was supposed to woo some customers. (more…)
