Undone by a text message

I had an appt. with Dr. C today, and boy, was I ever thankful for the timing!

As you know, this week was L's and Big A's birthdays...and I was struggling because my parents were not there.  Well, my Mom sent me text messages on both days to say "Happy Birthday" to the girls, and for some reason this struck a chord in me.  I miss my family.  I am/was very sad that they were not with my girls to celebrate their special days.

I got to therapy early today, and sat in the parking lot as I could see that Dr. C wasn't there yet.  I took a deep breath and sent my Mom a text back.  Told her we missed her, and that I hoped the fight would be over soon.  I said that I was just waiting for my Dad to "say the word".  (That's because he was the one who cut communication, so I have put it in his court to re-establish it.)  Dr. C arrives, onto therapy, and I tell her about the week and that I have texted my mom.  As if on cue, my phone dings.  I ask her if she minds if I check the message in case it's the sitter.  It's from Mom.  She says, "I miss you and them.  My heart hurts."  I pretty much die inside.  I read it aloud and try to laugh it off.  My heart hurts, too. It has hurt ever since I read my father's words: "I am getting off your roller coaster. I can no longer do this." I can feel the tears building in my chest to the point I feel like it's going to explode.  They start to escape from my eyes and I do my best to brush them away quickly as if they weren't there.  We talk about it; I am struggling as this is usually when I would shut down and not talk, but I force myself to talk through my feelings.  I am squishing down the tears...willing them to go away.  It's as if my whole body was shaking from the shear force of my stubbornness not to cry.

Conversation turns, we talk about how we can categorize family members into groups and how I can still approach some even through the fight.  My head is spinning.  I keep saying a phrase over and over in my head.  "He promised not to leave me.  He promised not to leave me."  I am trying as hard as I can to stay on topic, to agree with what she is saying, to be an active listener.  My tears betray me; they are refusing to stop rolling.  Finally, I know that I cannot hold it in anymore and there is only about 20 minutes left of the session. I knew I had to say it or I would leave and have a break-down outside of session.  I think that it's better that I have it in session where I can at least get support.  I don't like to fall apart in front of Dr. C, well...really anyone...but I can feel it's going to happen.

So, I take a breath and say it.  Tell her how he used to tuck me into bed at night and promise that he would never leave me like my bio-mom did.  But he did leave me.  He left me when I needed him the most.  My tears make the conversation jagged.  The pain cannot escape fast enough through my eyes; it feels like it's going to jump through every hole that it can.  I cover my eyes as if that will stop her from seeing how much I hurt.  We talk through it.  I am able to refocus.  I am able to make the sobs and the tears stop.  I will myself to take control, to stop crying and center.  "You can cry more later," I soothingly tell myself.  I always tell myself that, just usually "later" never comes.

Session is over.  I try and smile.  She will be gone next week, inside that does not sit well with me.  It makes me nervous.  I have become dependant on our sessions, too dependant.  Sometimes it's hard to wait the 6 days between sessions, let alone now having to wait 2 weeks.  I pull down the sunglasses that have been perched on the top of my head to cover my red eyes from her next client who is in the waiting room.  I walk outside; it's dark and looks like it's about to rain.  Great, I think.  I get in my car and almost as soon as I do small droplets start to fall on my car.  "Good-bye Yellow Brick Road" plays from the stereo as I begin the drive home.  The tears come again.  I let them fall.  Inside I am breaking into a million little pieces, but I will worry about putting them together later.  Right now I need the 25 minute ride home to mourn the loss of my father, to let "Little M" inside me feel the pain that she has always dreaded.

I come to a stoplight and know that I have to respond to my Mom's message.  I read her's again. 

"I miss you and them.  My heart hurts."

I respond.

"Ditto."