I feel like my life has been on hold in some ways. I’ve been working hard to clean my room (it’s a disaster zone up here), and so I haven’t had any chance to read my self-help books yet. However, I have been working on my memoirs every day. Talk about dismal and bleak! I’ve been writing about middle school. What stands out lately is how sad and hopeless things were. I was caught in some sort of hell that I couldn’t escape. I’ve been luckier than a lot of abuse victims in how much I’ve been given in the past several years. Unfortunately, looking back has been hurtful to me today. I could abandon the project, but I’m not sure if I should. At any rate, I’m going to be focusing on my NaNovel next month, and my NYC Midnight contests have a new round next week.
About that: I’m still afraid I’ll be disqualified due to not fitting within the genre. I’m bummed about that, and I’m on pins and needles. But you can never predict these things. Whether or not I’ll be writing a new story a week from this weekend for challenge three, I’ll definitely be experiencing the fingernail-biting suspense of awaiting results this time next week. And if I get eliminated, I’ll spend the weekend doing beta reading for people who make it to the next round. So now’s not the best time to start a completely unrelated, new writing project. Maybe things will seem easier tomorrow. Who knows?
I still feel somehow polluted by my mom’s energy. I haven’t had anymore recent interactions with her. I suspect a lot of my paranoia about energetic pollution comes from the simple fact that she was a horrible mother, meaning I was constantly exposed to her drama and negativity for years and years, and it took a toll on how much of other people’s issues I can let myself absorb. My dad’s energy feels nicer (well, to get technical, almost anyone’s energy feels nicer than my mother’s), but he’s not allowed to touch me or to stand too close to me, especially if I’m seated. Whenever his hand brushes against mine, I have to wipe off his foul energy right away. Other than that, I like my dad.
So what should I do? Give up on cleaning my room for now so I can jump into the self-help books? I’m a bit peeved that I had to dump my therapist, because she was supposed to help me sort out my multiple reactions to the abuse I suffered.
I have a theory about what went wrong. It’s just a theory.
She asked me what sort of sex I want to have, and I said, “Just plain, normal, straight sex.” By “straight” I meant straightforward or straightlaced (trust me, both apply to my missionary-style sexual fantasies); but she’s gay, and maybe she thought I was dissing gay sex. So her reaction was to make me feel ashamed of my sexuality, because gay people have to live in a society that makes them feel ashamed of their sexuality.
And then I wonder, geez, Meg, how paranoid are you? She was trying to help. How can you concoct all these paranoid schemes in your mind where people who are meant to help are secretly acting out their own ego issues?
But you have to wonder.
Maybe I’m not being paranoid. Rather, maybe I’m picking up on things that other people would never even question, meaning that most people wouldn’t even consider that the therapist in that instance was trying to hurt me subconsciously (or even consciously) on purpose. But that’s how I feel, and that was low of her. I have my own issues already, and she made a valiant attempt at adding to my list of problems.
It came up today in my mind since I’ve had some space from it, but I’ve used most of that space to irretrievably block the incident from my mind. I remember the finer details of it as fact, but I don’t remember the experience in a visual way, if that makes sense. The actual experience of it, even though I remember key details, is lost in a haze. All I still see in my mind is me sitting on her sofa gaping at her and feeling broken like a shattered vase that used to hold beautiful flowers.
I’ve had the same problem with previous therapists who also tried to add to my problems. I saw one therapist once for an EMDR consultation, and she spent the hour enlightening me on her past clients’ traumas. Those traumas still haunt me to this day. That was so uncalled for. So why are there therapists out there who take the approach of adding to their clients’ problems? We need less problems, not more problems. “Hello! I don’t have enough problems today. Can you give me something new to worry about?” said no one ever.
(Actually, I can totally see my mom saying that. She hates it when she has nothing to worry about.) (Lately, she’s been worrying about my blood sugar level, which is a solid 120 after every meal. She’s really grasping at straws there.) (I’m overweight, but I rarely if ever drink sugary drinks.) (I have several family members who got adult diabetes by chugging Coke all day long. I decided to try to prevent that from happening to me.) (This has been fun.)
Making me feel ashamed of my sexuality and anxious about it is so beyond unhelpful that there aren’t even words for it. The problem has always sort of been there. I worry that I’m not sexually experienced and that I don’t speak the language of sex. I worry that if I find a man who loves me, I’ll be a terrible lover and he’ll dump me. But all of those worries were more or less dormant until that disastrous therapy session. Now they’re out in the open. And that’s entirely counterproductive.
I just feel so sad. But I do think tomorrow will be better.