Occasionally I get asked to write something and I actually get paid for it. I'm often asked why I don't write a book, or publish my writings etc...
The answer to that is two fold. First - I haven't spent enough time really putting thought and effort into making my efforts at writing produce a sustaining income, and second - if I write about what I know, there would be too many things that I don't want out in the public about my life. Not because I am ashamed of it, but because there are other members of my family that would be affected by. There is no such thing as a victimless crime, and no family history is free of it's own set of criminals.
I have been asked recently to submit a piece of writing about "Letting Go Of Mental Illness".
That's a thing?
I missed that memo, apparently.
There is no letting go of illness. It changes your DNA. Depression is the deceitful dark cloud that robs my days of colour and paints me as useless and unworthy. It's hissing voice tells me it's right, and that I'm a piece of shit and don't deserve my skin,my friends,my children,my job,my car, my love,my life. It reminds me that I have to keep pushing, doing better, being nicer, being prettier, being skinnier, being smarter,being funnier. No one will like me if I'm not the best,the best,the best,the best. I have only it to thank for my success, because it's voice of truth keeps me at my best, stops me from being weak,stops me from being me. Because no one, it hisses, would like that. Don't let them see.
I don't write a book because that voice I hear, is my mothers'.
I let her go. I asked her to leave my home around ten years ago, my husband drove her home. I called her a few times at Christmas, and on her birthday, but I even gave that up. I went to visit her after my favourite uncle died, to see if she was okay. It was polite.
She left my home and never once picked up the phone again to speak to me, or make any attempt to contact me. We hadn't parted on terrible terms. But I hadn't lived up to her. And I lost her that day when she walked out my door, and all I have to remind me of her now is the voice of my own self loathing and wretchedness. The last time I saw her was after I received the phone call that she had passed away unexpectedly through the night, and I stood weeping beside her lifeless body at the funeral home that afternoon.
The truth is, I'd give everything I had to turn time back to the day that she left my life. And on the days that I struggle most, it's not that I believe that I am worthless or useless. It's that I so badly want to make her love me, that I'd gladly play the part.
I know if I hadn't let her go, it would've been me in that funeral home. And there are too many times I wish I had played my cards differently, so I could have bought us more time together.
I know she didn't love me. She hadn't the capacity, she was so enveloped in her own turmoil. I was a conduit for her own pain and torment.
I know that things couldn't have been different, unless she too had sought proper help for what troubled her.
I know I made the right choice because my own children will not hear my voice in torment, but in support. I hurt still. But I heal continuously.
My Mum was not a horrible person. She was ill. In so many ways. And I was available and vulnerable and able to take all that on for her. I paid the price. My children will not.
So, when I talk about letting go of mental illness, that is what I did. I let go of the person who meant more to me than life itself. It's not something I'm proud of, but it had to be done, for the sake of my family and my children.
We don't, no can't, let go of mental illness, or cancer, or diabetes, or any other kind of life changing condition. We can simply heal the wounds the best we can, and hope that we can patch up the rest enough to keep us afloat.
We can let go of habits that don't heal, and let go of thoughts that make us hurt. And we can let go of people who cause us harm. To quote a line in an article I read recently, "We can choose to let these people go. We don't have to, and it's hard to choose to do so. But we CAN".
In my perfect world, my Mum and I would have had a reunion, and she'd have seen the strong and healthy Annie, and would've loved her. But I've let that dream go. My Mum would have hated me as I am now. Because she herself was trapped, she wouldn't have ever been able to recognize the beauty that is freedom.
I hope she is free now. And that we have a chance for that reunion one day, somehow. And the part of me that was, is and always will be her daughter wants nothing more than to believe that she has found peace, and is happy that I have found mine.
Find Your CORE
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