Cut her off, I’ve been told–and Told–multiple times.
But how can I? She’s my mother. Is everything I went through really so horrible that cutting her off is the only appropriate response? I wasn’t beaten or denied food or warmth or clothing. I wasn’t molested. What adult can say they made it through childhood completely unscathed?
Maybe I should thank her. Because of her, I’m a (somewhat) competent adult. I can cook, clean, budget. I’m stupid about some things, though. I can’t blame her for my failure to pick things up.
I just don’t know.
I feel like a hypocrite.
For years, I’ve been saying that I wanted a place that was mine, a place I could go to shut the world out when I needed to. Well I got it, and now I can’t handle it.
Don’t get me wrong: I do feel grateful for the place and I do enjoy having my own space. But now it’s like I’m walking around with this dark cloud over my head. I’m happy, though. I feel glad to be earning money and making my own way. But there’s still that cloud.
I know there’s no reason for me to feel this way. I have everything I said I wanted–more than what I said I wanted. So what’s my problem?
I’ve moved into my own place! Only been here a week, and it’s been weird.
I keep expecting people to come home in the evenings. I’m always waiting to hear my door open and have someone come up the stairs. I’m making dinner now and I hope I won’t make too much. Shopping for just me was an experience. What I had didn’t even fill half the cart. It just looked wrong. There wasn’t enough food there, to my eye.
The nights are the worst. I lock up, and just sit here in the living room with the TV and all the silence. There are people I could call, but I don’t want to bother them. What can I say to them? “Hey, chat with me because it’s creepy for me being up here with only me.”? No.
So because the nights are weird, I don’t sleep very well. I wake up every hour, and I have to get up early for work anyway. I have tea and I drink it, but still.
And the dreams…well, the dreams are another post.