The Right PlaceMature

The day of the month anniversary came. I felt awesome. I baked a cake and it fell apart. Tavie was out of town but we texted about the entire day. Then night came and it was horrible. Absolutely horrible. I don't even remember half of it, but that was the nearest you can come to relapsing and not actually doing it.

I realized I needed help. I couldn't do this alone. I wanted to try to talk to my Mom again. I had this picture in my mind of how she would react. I imagined her listening attentively, and hugging me. I talked to my Uncle and he said to just try to talk to her again. I talked to my Pastor/Youth Pastor and while he didn't know my whole story he encouraged me to talk to my Mom. Tavie told me to talk to Mom. I figured what's the worse that can happen right?

Well, I asked Mom if she had a list of therapist I should look into, just to try to open the can of worms. She looked at me, and said "Are you really that screwed up?" Shock. Utter shock. I didn't know what to say so I just left the room. She called after me, something about a Catholic therapist. I said I was fine.

Liar.

I didn't cry. My brothers bursted in my room, telling me I was a brat for upsetting Mom. 

You little brat. Your a horrible person. You cause so many problems in this family. Just shut up and deal with it the way you have for a while. Then you can be the perfect little girl, and do everything this family deserves you do. You are messed up. 

No. NO.

I got in the car to go to class, then my Mom wanted to talk. I didn't want to. I would cry. I would miss class. She made me. She asked me what the problem was. She sounded angry and she sounded mean. She asked me if I had body problems. No Mom. I don't. She asked me to say what I would say to the therapist in one sentence. Oh gosh. Maybe the fact I went from having one parent that adored me to having one parent that doesn't have time for me. She got quiet and softly said that was good. 

That day was difficult. I hung out with my Uncle, who had a hernia. I talked to him, telling him how guilty I felt for telling my Mom anything. This whole family deals with enough crap I'm not letting them deal with mine. They just can't take it. 

That day, I felt a peace in my heart. Like God realized that I had done my part, and I couldn't do anything else. I truly felt like God was my therapist. He would guide me Scripture. I created this little book, and wrote down all the lies the enemy told me. I then found Scripture to combat every lie. I knew my stuff. I was a victor. For once in a long, long, long time, I felt I was in the right place. I was second-guessing though.

Was this called healing? Or was this just another season of happiness before the crashing waves?

The End

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