“Remember the first week of school? When you called us asking to come and get you? This is what we drove through.”
“I followed a tractor trailer for 60 miles because I couldn’t see shit.”
I don’t remember the self-harm. Or the why.
I do remember the blood and the dissociating in the bathroom — praying that nobody would come in and find the crazy girl and ship her off to the hospital.
I called my mom crying and screaming and begging please if you love me, you’ll come and get me.
Indoctrinating them into a nasty cycle of:
1) Don’t ask how your daughter is doing, you have no right. Don’t get sad when she’s sad or mad when she’s mad. Don’t feel her pain. It’s her pain.
2) Feel her pain. Be here any time she needs you even though she is horrible sometimes. Any time she needs. Anywhere she is. Support her (me).
They arrive at 3:00 AM.
I fall asleep so they wait out in the rain banging on doors, trying to find someone who can get them to me.
They become the container for my experience while I am resting in this dream world. While I get the temporary relief of sleep, they are still awake in my nightmare, hellish reality. They can still hear the screams. Left in the ruins I ballet-danced my way between.
Our worlds join as I wake up. When they come there’s a minute where I want to say oh I’m fine, I made a mistake. Sorry to have made you come here. I’m a Big College Girl Now. But thanks anyway.
However I don’t. Because I know I didn’t make a mistake in my body. I am not the Big College Girl I want to be.
Flashback, 2013:Therapist, Long Island New York; Irene: “Do you really want to go to college with your OCD? How will you manage? How will you make it?
I made it because they give me options.
And I was ok.
I didn’t need medication to drown out my feelings.
I needed my feelings to feel heard.
So Mom & Dad: Thanks for driving in the rain.