annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary
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Shame
It's been so long since I updated - I hate that - but I've been so tired by the end of the day - I know, that's my theme song, but more than ever, unable to even think of organising thoughts or opening pages. So, this is a morning update - feels weird being daylight and all that.
I started feeding activities back into my schedule, the writing groups first, but also art, twice, then wham that's four things in a week and still with a daughter to visit and a dog to walk. I don't really know how to proceed with my life at the moment.
This feels awkward but I want to write it down, to have it here in case I forget it again. I've been contemplating tidying up, getting rid of a load of pointless stuff that's accumulated around me and this has led to me considering the various items in my house, not quite that Marie Kondo interrogation about 'sparking joy', as joy is in short supply, but that kind of thing. What's struck me more than anything is the amount of beautiful and/or useful objects around the place that have been given to me by my Younger Daughter, often as part of some wider gesture. Like the little kitchen bin for vegetable peelings en route to the compost, given as part of a big sort out of my kitchen in that last flat. Clothes from the massive stack of Christmas presents that year - after ED's partner had given me a stack that looked quite overwhelmingly thoughtful and generous, but turned out to be a bought online deal, with each box containing something cheap, flimsy and literally useless, like the gifts inside Christmas crackers - so embarrassing after I'd been gushingly thankful. And then YD saved and collected for two years until at Christmas she gave me a real tower of amazing, beautiful gifts in boxes piled up high, tied with ribbons...
And what I realised as I was looking at these things, dotted around the house, is that she has been endlessly kind and lovely and generous, but, and this is the revelation, none of it stays in my memory, because it doesn't fit my subconscious internal narrative of poor me, no one cares, no one loves me, no one bothers. Aw man. She has done so much for me over the years - loads and loads of times she went the extra mile and I was always very grateful and moved in the moment, but then it fell right out of my memory.
I knew this could happen with bad things - it was many years before I could keep in mind that I've been raped, twice. I have several times been in discussions about rape, with other women, talking, feeling and believing as if it was all theoretical because it hadn't happened to me. Sometimes those memories sank out of sight for years at a time, and maybe there are other awful events buried deep, but I didn't know I'd also buried good memories. I did know about the personal narrative, about us fucked up people always holding on to critical comments and unpleasantries and forgetting compliments, but I hadn't realised it went so far.
I felt terrible - and still do - ashamed and horrified that I haven't valued my daughter as much as she's deserved, that I've carried on feeling unloved and hard-done-by, awful. I told my sister-in-law about it when we were walking the dogs - she was an educational psychologist till she retired - and she was incredibly moved that I'd made this leap of understanding - gave me a big hug - almost tearful. Fuck. She said they were always taught that you had to praise damaged kids ten times for even one bit to start to get through. I'm crying again now, for the damaged kid that I was, who grew into this damaged adult, who also damaged others on the way.
I then spoke to YD about it on the phone when she'd called me - she's 79 days clean and dry and still having struggles and I'm glad she calls her mum for some of those struggles. She said it was all good - that she'd wanted to 'save' me but that my response had demonstrated again and again that you can't save anyone else, you can only save yourself (if you're lucky). And that it was a good lesson to learn. Aw man. It makes me want to go back and relive those occasions and do them differently, to be a much, much better mother. Sigh.
So based on that I thought I'd better attempt to be more appreciative of Bloke and all he does for me. Especially as I have no means of leaving and am never entirely sure I want to, anyway. So I said, if we want to make this into a home, not just a house, maybe we could start with some lists of things that need doing in each room and outside, then we could be ticking them off and feeling like we're getting somewhere. He was enthusiastic. I wandered off and then had a total panic attack - what was I doing, setting myself up to trust him again? It felt like a massive mistake. I don't know - it's terrible living here, but I'm half out the door all the time, so what do I expect? And he is what he is - almost certainly on the spectrum and can only do what he can do. So I tidied the hall and am thinking about it all.
I see my counsellor tomorrow and will discuss it with him.
Photos: Trying to make an art work out of things the dog chewed:
Mothering Sunday - at the care home with ED and Grandson - can't remember what made us laugh
Then dinner at YD's, with GS and his girlfriend, followed by Boggle:
I am grateful for: daughters; Son; understanding more, bit by bit, the consultant coming to see ED this afternoon to give Botox injections to release the spasms that affect her arms, hands and feet; clocks forward - evenins, yay.
Have a good week xxx
11:57 a.m. - 01.04.19
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