February was embarrassing. I did things I never thought I’d do. I said things I never thought I’d say. To myself back then, I was recognizable. I was fine. I had it all under control. I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I was taking care of myself. And to an extent, I was. But I was doing so from the learned behaviors stemmed from a trauma that happened in 1995. It’s hard reviewing who I was in February with my December eyes. I still want to tear up just thinking about how broken, unaware, and desperately in need of direction and help I really was. I needed a parent in February. I needed a therapist in February. I needed a lot of things that I didn’t get until much later in the year.
Here’s where the problem started:
It was a normal day in my nine year old world. I woke up to eat my normal breakfast and take my daily Flintstone multivitamin. After breakfast, all dressed in my Mount Zion elementary school uniform, I got in the car for the short ride to school. I spent most of my days there trying to forge friendships with girls I barely understood. I’ve always been an odd kid. It didn’t help that I was an only child to that point, and very sheltered. Anyway, the school day was quickly over. Uneventful, same as the others. I got home, had dinner, and was preparing to go play dolls in my room when I heard a knock on the door. We weren’t expecting company that I knew of but I was always excited to have people over, especially if they brought their kids, so I rushed to open the door. A woman stood on the other side asking to speak with my mom, Faye.
I’ll spare you the long sordid version and cut straight to the heart of the story. The woman who had come knocking was revealed to be my birth mother. I was told she had come to take me with her. As you can imagine, this was one hell of a mind fuck to a nine year old who had only learned what a birth mother was, and that someone else was her birth mother a few short weeks prior.
I panicked, ran, hid, cried, begged. I responded exactly how you’d think a nine year old would respond to having strangers come to forcefully remove them from all sense of normalcy. I was placed, not without a fight, in the backseat of a black Cadillac and driven away from the only mother, and home I knew. I was hysterical.
On the ride from Texas to Louisiana I was still very much so inconsolable, despite the ice cream and treats that were bought in attempt to calm me down. This went on for a few days until the woman, who I had now come to learn was my birth mother, made a bargain with me. I was promised that if I was a good girl, I’d be able to see Faye and maybe even go home again, soon. I stopped acting out almost on the spot and committed myself to being a good girl.
In my mind, the reason I had found myself in this situation in the first place, must have meant that I was a bad girl. So, to fix this mess, I just needed to be good again.
Because if I was a good girl, no scratch that, the BEST girl, I could go home. Things would go back to normal and I would feel safe and loved, all I had to do was be a good girl.
This situation was the creation of abandonment, attachment, and people pleasing wounds that I would operate from for the next 25 years of my life. Needless to say, I never made it back to my childhood home or Faye, not to live anyway. But I remained a good girl through and through in the hopes of one day making it back. This didn’t serve me well, but you’ll see why.
February 2021 – Trying to be the good girl.
I eventually got out of my ass and decided to end all communication after spending a solid two weeks asking for permission to break up. Hell, I think it was in February that I even asked, “What’s wrong with me to make you not want to be with me?” <<<—- Low self esteem, much?
Alongside this insanity, I spent more time alone than I’d ever experienced in my life. But, true to form, unable to find true comfort being alone, I got on dating websites looking to fill the time. Low key, it was also my attempt to find someone to make her jealous.
But, the hiatus was short lived and we started talking again.
The narcissist had lost her supply and needed the connection back.
And my loneliness was killing me…
Right before the freeze a couple of things happened that had me thinking things had turned around for our situation. Looking back, the shift in behavior was probably because I had finally put my foot down and decided there would be no further communication.
All of a sudden the person I knew months ago was back. We were communicating regularly, spending time together, hell, I even got a Valentine’s day present this year. Since things had begun to smooth out with us, I agreed to a deal with the devil…
Those attachment issues kicked right in at the smallest offer of affection and attention. I was so afraid to be alone, I wanted so badly to be accepted. To be loved, or at least have someone pretend to love me that I agreed to whatever scraps I could grasp. I even went the extra step in mind fucking myself into thinking it was a good idea.
We made a pact to be friends with benefits, again.
I reasoned that as long as I didn’t know about the existence of other women, as long as when we spent time together it was just us, that we could carry on.
More importantly, I was convincing myself that I didn’t have feelings because feelings were problematic. I convinced myself that by developing feelings in the first place, I had ruined my situation. I convinced myself that I both didn’t need, and did need, that situation simultaneously. I was trying so hard to be a good girl. I agreed to whatever would get me whatever resembled love.
I wanted the “stability” back that I’d had a mere two months ago.
See what I mean about doing most of the work of mind fucking myself? My traumas made it way too easy for me to be manipulated, and to manipulate myself.
I did a lot of people pleasing, compromising on myself, and lying to myself. It seems every opportunity that I could be taken advantage of and mentally manipulated into, I showed up for.
It wasn’t until a few weeks after the freeze, on our way back from the city, that I saw the name of the reason my “happy home” had gone away. It flashed across the screen of her car radio. I lost it.
Even though we agreed to be friends with benefits, it was always expressly understood that if one of us started entertaining someone else all bets were off. I knew she was talking to other women, sure, but I had been assured there was no one she was dating or romantically involved with but me to that point. The name that appeared on the caller id though, I knew that name. Even though she didn’t know that I knew it.
Because of this, I put an end to it all. No more communication period. No seeing each other. No nothing. I was DONE!
In February, I felt much like my nine year old self. I was confused and afraid. I felt abandoned and betrayed.
Once again, I had been forced out of my comfort zone abruptly. The “safe” place I had cultivated had been snatched from beneath my feet with no warning or explanation.
At 34, I was still trying to be a good girl. Still trying to get back home. Still trying to find comfort and unconditional love. And the shit still wasn’t working out…
Theme song for February – Send My Love – Adele