While growing up, I tried very hard to be the perfect daughter. I was polite, quiet, obedient, a good student, tidy, shy and seemingly happy. This is the daughter my mother knows and loves. She doesn’t know the daughter she is now faced with. She doesn’t recognise the woman who can’t go outside unless it’s for work; the woman who will stand in the middle of the kitchen and start scratching her hand while staring into space; the woman who says that she can’t serve up dinner because the food has suddenly become dirty and disgusting; the woman who sits on the Internet until 2am because the idea of sleep is too scary for her and she needs the distraction.
This week, the mother has been faced more and more with the daughter she doesn’t know or recognise. The session on Monday with Liz stirred up all sorts of issues internally and I’ve been struggling to cope with the reaction. It got to the point on Tuesday night that there was going to be some fairly serious self-destructive behaviour occur if there wasn’t some intervention. That intervention came in the form of someone coming forward to take photos. They realised we were too unsafe to drive anywhere, so the usual routine of driving somewhere to take photos was out. Instead they decided to use some props from around the house to see what they could do. The mother could tell we weren’t well, so she ended up helping by having a look for different props to photograph and holding the torch we used as a light source. This is one of the results…
Because the mother helped us with all of this, she could monitor us more closely. She said that it wasn’t until after the photos had all been taken and we were putting them onto the computer for processing that we sort of “came back”.
Awhile ago, Sophie tried to apologise for the not being that perfect daughter the mother remembered. The mother said that we were probably never that perfect daughter, but she didn’t see it. She didn’t see what that perfection was hiding. I think she really does want to help sometimes. But her own dysfunctional thinking and lack of healing, mean that she will never really be able to help us. I don’t resent her inability to help us, but I do wish that she would seriously look at her own need to heal. She went to therapy for a couple of sessions, but then stopped as she thought it wasn’t going anywhere.
I’m aware this makes us sad or uncomfortable or something. I’m not good at naming or understand emotions, but I noticed that the body was feeling very cold and I need to do up the jersey we wore to work.
Time to go back to being the perfect working daughter…
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Now playing: U2 – Running to Stand Still
via FoxyTunes