Let me tell you; this is not about bicycling or the gym. I am a manic depressive who ‘rapid cycles.’ I feel sorry for my family because at times I cannot phantom being around me. Who wants to live with a mother who one day is baking cookies and the next is a zombie on the couch lost in thought? What I do know is; time is drawing near where I will have to seek pharmaceuticals again because sometimes I just can’t shake the anxiety or isolationism of my disorder.
Funny………. I worked hard on myself to be what I was expected to be as a child. Yet, my rapid racing mind along with my machine gun tongue just cut my mother to the core; then in she would strike out to get my submission. Who could blame me, her, or the situation; she hated being a parent.
She tore us from our family; went to California to get away from the stigma of being divorced. Men came and went; little miss perfect developed her own coping mechanisms and eventually caught their eye which was terrifying when a young person just wants to disappear. (More later)
I just wanted to be normal but, who can define that? Today, I can’t tell you what that illusion is. I do know, I have a rigid moral code. What I find is right; feels like a steel knife I walk on – my steps cannot waiver because I will slip upon its edge and die.
Not once, have I gotten an apology since, in her mind she was doing what she needed to do to raise us into proper adults. Who is a proper adult here? Neither my sister nor I; hang with her. As a matter of fact, I have only been in her home less than five times in 25 years. My children don’t know her name but, have met her.
I don’t want my truth mixed up with their childhood. I have learned how to compartmentalize so well; she taught me – sometimes I am numb to pain until I appear cruel. Yes, I am still angry I don’t know why but, I am. Most of the time I feel stupid as I don’t understand her nature; while she holds some blame – not all because I lived passed her. Is this nature or nuture?
Now you are probably wondering why I am writing this post. Will I delete it tomorrow due to its sensitive nature? I don’t think so, because once upon a time; I wrote poetry now, I write to purge myself of the guilt of being me.
Am I still just a wounded child.............