sliding backwards

What if
the person you need
is the same person
you cannot speak to
when
you need them
the most.
-Nikita Gill

I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment. I hate feeling like this. I find it hard to gather my thoughts into something that I can make sense of. Just when I almost have a little grasp on what I need to deal with, something else instantly takes it place. I never seem to be able to get through anything at all.

I saw my neighbour yesterday. It was a cold cloudy day and she was wearing sunglasses. She turned her face and it was black and blue. I haven’t spoken to her since Saturday night. I won’t pretend it didn’t happen but I am not going to bombard her either. She just might need her own time and space to figure out what she needs. I gave my mother strict instructions that if she was to come over to talk with her (not that I expect her to) that she was not to allow her apologize for anything. She did nothing wrong and that sonofabitch deserves to be in prison.

There is so much about Saturday night that isn’t sitting right with me. I can’t put my finger on it, but something is wrong. I absolutely believe my neighbour–the bruises and the words screamed in fear are testament to it all–but there is something that isn’t right. Some sort of unfinished business. Some sort of secret. I don’t have a good feeling about any of it.

Being an outside witness to all that happened gives a new perspective to my childhood and the horror of what it was. It’s hard to sit with it. I feel alone with my thoughts and memories and nightmares.

I can’t talk about it with my mother because I am afraid. Of what, I have no idea. But there is a definite underlying terror of speaking about any of it–the past or the present. My mother isn’t being very useful anyways (although it doesn’t feel surprising). She’s made a few comments since Saturday that have sort of tossed me out of balance. The first was when she said ‘if I ever get like that when I’m drinking, I hope you shoot me‘. Another was when out of the blue she stated ‘my parents used to fight like that when they were drinking–screaming and swearing and breaking things. I always hated it‘. Part of me wants to tell her that now isn’t the time to make it all about her. Part of me feels bad for her. Part of me wants to run away and never talk to her again.

On top of that I just feel like crap. It feels like any momentum I gained on Friday has been lost and I’m sliding backwards again. The mornings are the absolute worst for me and I’d rather stay in my pyjamas and fluffy socks and sit by the fire where it’s nice and warm instead of going to work and having to be around people.

T will say we should talk about the diagnosis….or rather, I should talk about it. He’ll say that no matter how I feel, it’s okay. Part of me doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe by not talking about it, it makes it not a big deal, or not important, or not real.

The words won’t come now. So I’ll have to sit with that part of it for a little while longer.