I cried last night, I mean had a tissue-in-hand-supressing-sobs kind of cry. I had to put Sammy in the hospital yesterday, as broke as I am too, was an extra strain. I couldn’t not take care of her. After bedtime prayer I asked Mom for a hug, and she leaned into me so I could hug her. I NEEDED THE HUG. I know she was mad at me, but she couldn’t reach passed that to comfort me. I went to my room and broke down. I didn’t cry this much when Mom was in the hospital, so yea, it’s a little uneven [my love] between Sammy and Mom, but Sammy saved my life and sanity….can’t really say that for Mom. What I really realized is that I am alone, utterly alone on this mortal plane. I know Heavenly Father is there for me, and yes, I get comfort from His Spirit and the knowledge that Christ is there, and all that. However, sometimes I just need strong arms around me to tell me that everything will be alright.
The tear stained revelation came to me that I have to do the work in the Homecoming book by Bradshaw. It’s not something I can just joke about, or fear any more. I don’t want to be that alone anymore. I’m not talking about going out and finding a man, I’m talking about being whole enough to be able to find the comfort in my own solitude when things get this scary for me. Only when I am whole, or as whole as I can get considering the privation of my rearing, then I will look for someone. I don’t want to have to rely on someone for my happiness, that’s a trap no different from relying on your parent for comfort when she is too depth-less to understand how anyone could need comfort more than she does.
Of course the depression has a small side car of paranoia that loves to spin conspiracy theories right and left. I made the ultimate mistake of telling Mom how much Sammy means to me and why. I even had to choke back the tears as I told her. (I know better than to cry in front of her), and then Sammy, about ten days after this little talk ends up vomiting glittery, crystalline substance, not unlike the sequins on her red skirt. I keep telling myself that Mom wouldn’t hurt her because she loves Sammy almost as much as I do, but Sammy has been bugging the crap out of her lately and she has become a full on rival for my unconditional love…..you can see the little sticky wheels spin, can’t you. I was actually beginning to think that Sammy loved my mom more than me lately with the way Sammy kept hanging out with my Mom…but the way she’s snuggling up with me and just rubbing her head all over my face has made me change my mind. She was just annoying Mom to make me happy. (I just love her to bits)
The crying though, made me scared when it kept coming and I couldn’t stop. When I started this blog, the thought of Sammy not getting well, or even dying made tears come back to my eyes. I don’t like crying. Crying is for sissies…..okay, it’s really not, I know that….but it makes me feel so vulnerable. I don’t like feeling vulnerable around a woman who uses your weaknesses to manipulate you into doing her bidding for her…..Again, I digress into a little angry rant. I’m trying to keep those under control. I was afraid for a while that I wouldn’t be able to stop, which tends to be the standard fear when I cry. What if I can’t stop? What if I can never cry again? I know it’s important to the emotional health of humans to have that release of whatever hormone it is that makes you feel better after you cry, I’m hoping that’s what Lexapro does because, well, I don’t want to be a cry-baby. I don’t want to be ruled by my emotions. Strangely enough I feel like those deep, dark emotions are like some sort of manipulation….I can’t really explain it….it’s like a war between my consciousnesses…if you cry your subconscious wins because you can’t keep it together. I don’t like to lose. Maybe that is the wrong way to look at it. The tears might be the rain that flower the creativity of the soul? (Isn’t that so icky poetic).
The truth be told, I still need a good hug. My nephew promised me one on Thursday. I need to start this process no matter how much it hurts, or how much ectoplasm I hemorrhage. Like a boil, my psyche needs to be lanced so the healing can begin. Hopefully, it won’t kill me.
I’ve attached a comment as to why Sammy means so much to me, if you are confused why a 47-year-old woman is neurotically attached to a fickle little mini macaw.