My Agoraphobia has reached an all time high.
I rarely leave the house. It takes an internal pep talk for the courage to go outside and feed my two cats.
Sometimes, I manage to go the Publix or the feed store to purchase hay for Miss Lola (who is doing great by the way). Straight there and back. I only learned a week ago that a Starbucks and Chipolte had popped up just on the other side of Publix and has been there for months.
I had not a single clue.
Lately thoughts are of dreaming of being stable and normal. Really. That isy big dream. To have a stable job and income that I enjoy. Enrolled in a nice university working on a Master’s degree. Not rapid cycling between hope, anger, despair and happiness.
Manic one day, literally – one day and the next is filled with suicidal ideation.
My sister attacked not only myself but my mother, my older brother and my father over my mental illness.
“She’s a mooch.”
“Right now she’s a waste of space piece of s***.”
“I’m only saying this out of love.”
The attack against me was from this direct quote of a text message excluding her name.
“We need to have a talk and some clarification.”
I sent this text after hearing about what she said to my mother. Normally, I am a send them to the burn unit, and give them the grand jury after kind of gal.
The rare ment where I am calm, cool and collected in initiating what I was hoping to be an educational conversation that would lend some perspective.
After her six page text of venom I only said two words, “good bye.”
My sister has always been verbally and emotionally abusive. But she had those teeny tiny moments when she was my best friend. I could go to her and she would hug me and make everything better.
While they were rare, they are very important to me.
However, the irnoy is – I am who I am because of her, today. She was the one who raised me until we moved to where we are now 17 years ago.
Fear of an opinion. Fear of weakness. Fear of love and affection. Because showing any of these things made me a target. Not my brothers, but me.
I did not have a favorite color until this time last year.
I did not understand how someone had a “favorite color” until after my miscarriage.
I remember sitting on the bus to school, trying to figure out what a favorite color was and how one chose their favorite color.
Was it pink?
No, everyone is made fun of for liking anything pink.
Was it green? Like my brother’s?
Nope, not that either. Not being original sets her off as well.
What about blue?
I don’t think so. Soany people say blue but like every other choice – they were just colors to me. Not a part of a personality or identity.
So, if I was scared and confused at the simple idea of owning to the notion of liking so much to call it your favorite color – imagine every other item, person, place or thing people expected you to have alignment with.
I don’t expect to speak to sister for a long time, if ever again.
I am doing everything I am capable of right now to be better.
There are so many times when like headlights the distance, see something is coming up that I need to recognize and work with but my brain cannot seem to connect how.