So, I had a breakthrough in therapy.  First, I'd like to say that that whole sentence is so trite and stupid and I swore I'd never say anything like that.  But, here I am......

I've been in active therapy with a wonderful LCSW for over five years.  The journey has been amazing and profound and life-altering.  More words I think are cheesy and not really reflecting the work I've done.   During the first few years of therapy, there were many "breakthroughs."  Then, I guess my mind shut up for a while and I was left struggling to find some things to talk about.  I even considered backing out of therapy for a while.  I figured, it'll be there when I need it.

About two months ago, my life-partner and all-around great guy, B., went through a catalytic experience which led him to seek therapy as well.  In helping him talk through things, realized that he and I both had similarly bad times in 1983.  He was a senior in high school, and I was in eighth grade, several states apart and worlds away from each other.  We also realized that we both were hospitalized the same week in December of that year and we both had significant issues with our parents that year.

As I was mentioning all of this to my therapist, she asked me to talk about what was happening that year.  In that talk, I broke down, weeping like a watering pot, and couldn't explain why.  She asked good questions and I groped for answers and memories.

I started the blog because I felt I needed a way to collect my thoughts and organize them.  Otherwise, they're going to drive me crazy, and I am now even more bound and determined NOT to turn into my mother.  :)

I will start with the memory that elicited the tears in my recent therapy session:

In order to understand the events of 1983 for me, I have to go back through the years leading up to that time.  My half-brother was born in January of 1980.  At the time, this was wonderful.  I loved my little brother so much and he was a cute kid.  We had tons of fun together and were really close until he hit high school.  That's a whole other blog post, so we'll save all that (teaser!).  After his birth, without a lot of fanfare or transparency, my mother slipped deeper and deeper into depression.  Looking back, it was extremely gradual and, therefore, not noticeable.  In January of 1982, my mother's father died very suddenly and unexpectedly.  It was the day after his 65th birthday and he was healthy and fit and active and this did not make sense to anyone.  On the day he died, I was at school, in sixth grade, back when sixth grade was still in the elementary schools.  I had missed some school the week before, because I had been sick, so, on this day, I was sitting in the math teacher's classroom while the rest of the sixth graders were out at PE.  The principal showed up in the classroom and whispered to the teacher.  The principal then told me I needed to come with her to the office.  I was immediately filled with such fear and dread I couldn't breathe.  My mother was a teacher at the same school, and all I could think was I had done something terribly wrong.  I wracked my brain as we walked to the office.  I pulled out every single behavior I had committed during the last few days, weeks, and months, trying to figure out which one was the thing that was so terrible that I was being sent to the office.  At the office, my step-father's mother was waiting for me.  I asked her why she was at my school, and she said, "I'll let your mother tell you."  Of course, this was not helping, because now I was even more convinced that I had done something bad and it was obviously wrecking the family so much that I was being pulled out of school.  When I got to the house, we walked in through the garage, and my mother was sobbing, pacing in the family room.  I knew then that I was dead meat.  The reason I knew this is because there had been many times that my actions had put my mother in this same state.  That's why, when I saw my mother in obvious distress, my first reaction was to feel guilt and remorse.  The thought that there might be some tragedy or crisis never entered my mind.  When my mother stopped pacing and told me that my most favorite grandparent had died, it was a relief.  An unbelievable flood of peace swept over me because I was not the source of all this pain.  Sadly, I felt such relief that I couldn't even process my grandfather's death for many years.

After my grandfather's death, my mother didn't slip further into depression, she plummeted.  She started eating like it was an addiction (which I believe it was), and stopped caring for herself and the rest of us.  She stopped doing even simple household tasks and simple hygiene.