I don't think I've mentioned that I haven't told my Mom any of my issues.
I'm pretty sure I haven't.
One lovely Saturday, I had a breaking point. I had had a great day, and she was leaving for work. I was feeling kinda sick, so I was laying on the couch.
I had been getting sick from the stress. Stomach aches, constantly tired, a daze nearly all the time. It was horrible.
As she was leaving she hugged the boys good-bye, then came over to the couch, rubbed her hands on my hair and said
"Be a good girl, though I know you are."
Tears formed in my eyes as she made her way to the door. Oh Mom. I'm not good. I'm guilty of so many things. I'm a horrible person.
The demons started to fill my head.
I tried to shake them off, then ran upstairs, grabbed my notebook, and ran into my Mom's room. I sat on her bed and started to write.
I wrote her a long note. Long and difficult to write.
I cried. And I cried. I didn't want to hurt her. She had gone through enough. I decided to give her the note the next day, before she left for work. That way, I wouldn't have to face her face-to-face and she would be able to cool down a bit.
My bare arm was right there. Just a tiny scratch, and it would relief the pain. And relive the memories.
NO. I will be strong.
I ripped out the paper, put on my jogging shoes, and ran. I decided I like running. It let me clear my mind and think.
What's the worse that could happen right? I suppose she could put me in a treatment program, or bring me to the doctor who would assign me some pills. But that won't happen.
But wait. The last time I said that, the worse possible thing did happen.