Heh. I’m sick of having PTSD. I wish I could take a break from it, and I know that I’ve made lots of strides but FUCK I am tired of it.
I am doing well in the new job, I think. It still isn’t enough work for me to feel that I’m earning my keep but I am doing well with what I have.
I’m getting along with the child who had all those problems earlier in the summer very well, and we’re both anticipating/dreading school, but Pokemon Go has pretty much saved all of us this summer.
I’m discovering how much I love my partner in all kinds of new ways and I exchanged “I love you’s” with my beautiful girlfriend and life should be grand, right?
My mother went to ‘visit’ my little sister in the condo she owns, tore it apart, and drove my sister batty.
And I was so proud of how I handled the texts and phone calls — I didn’t get too overly invested. I said I was genuinely sorry but I gave no advice and I didn’t answer the phone if I was busy doing something else.
Good boundaries, I said to myself.
Then I started the nightly nightmares about my mom, again. Every fucking night. She controls a space I live in, or I have to clean up after a huge mess she made.
And the texts started to fly between me and my sisters. My mother demanded a visit with the baby sister, whose house is under major construction. The baby said no. My mom came anyway, and my sister — who is working, has two very young children, and whose spouse is out of town — had to relocate to some ranch to entertain our mother, while also still working full-time.
She made a funny checklist for herself, just to get through it: listing off all the predictable, bizarre behavior our mom would engage in: stealing things, saying terribly inappropriate things to her children, underminding her parenting by attempting to manipulate the kids, questioning my sister’s memory (one of my mom’s favorite refrains is, of course, how TERRIBLE her daughters’ memories are), trying to force her, a vegetarian, to eat meat by sneaking it into food, etc.
What she didn’t have on her list was ‘taking hashish from some random guy at the ranch and smoking it in front of the grandchildren and then freaking out.’
All along I feel like I’ve been doing good: listening, not yelling or heaping on, etc.
Then all three sisters acted shocked, shocked I tell you, and HORRIFIED, that she did this last thing.
And that’s when I overstepped.
“Why are you all surprised?” I texted. “She got stoned and drank in front of us all the time when we were kids.”
We’re allowed to say she’s horrible NOW, within certain strict parameters, but we aren’t allowed to hint at how awful she was in our childhoods.
Listen — I realize this makes no sense. But I don’t make the rules, okay? I only break them continually like a goddamned fool.
Now the text stream has fallen eerily silent, and guess who is mere hours from my home?
The sister who was horribly abusive to me last Christmas, whom I had until now been looking forward to seeing because she is much better when camping and we’re going up to a well-known national wilderness for a few days.
Now I am watching the clock with dread.
Also: yesterday there was a very very minor kerfuffle in the grocery store. Two women, radiating tension, walked past me in a wide aisle.
I could feel their rage crackling between them. One said to the other: “I’ll get a ride,” and I could feel that there was going to be blows soon.
Then one walked away and I thought: Oh, thank god.
And then I came around the corner and there they were. One said to the other: “Don’t you start; don’t you even start,” and they were shoving into each other’s carts and one hit the other.
I froze. I shook. They went around the corner and fell silent, and I was shaking.
That’s the moment my partner decided to come up behind me and plant a smootch on the back of my neck.
I did not hit her or scream, and I am very proud of both of those things.
But I was still shaking a few hours later.
That part of PTSD can FUCK THE FUCK RIGHT OFF, you guys. I want to be over this shit.