Emotional maturity, despite myself, I will write!

The ability to hold two conflicting emotions without trying to stop the discomfort, or, to be still in acknowledgement, according to mental health experts, is "emotional maturity." For example, I feel so unnerved, vulnerable, and naked in my skin for exposing my blemished upbringing, and for sharing the difficulties of my life choices. The opposing emotions push me forward by my desire to be understood, and by the part of me that feels like my life depends on it. So here I see-saw between two distinctly different emotions-related to how I feel about writing. I guess the good news is, I can tell myself I am emotionally maturing-if anything else.

This past week, (after my last post), was hard on me emotionally. I became extremely sensitive, scared, and childlike in my behaviors. For starters, I became defensive when a good friend, (someone who loves me-who wants only good things for me) handed out a little constructive criticism about my writing. Additionally, I became so jealous, and hurt (like a crushing gut pain) when my love tucked a piece of another woman's hair behind her (the woman's) ear at a party. (That was like pouring citric acid in my already gushing wound. I had just written about my mother never making that same loving gesture towards.) I felt defeated, raw and afraid of everything hurting. I became paranoid (Im still coming off that one), I started projecting my own story as to what people thought about me. I believed people were avoiding me, maybe some were, but I also felt proud of my work and my ability to affect people, so onward I trudge.

I suppose if you are reading this you are right there with me, or else you are reading this to judge me, either way, I am forced to be OK with it, I don't really have a choice. One of the hardest parts about putting myself "out there" is the silence. It's as if the more I share intimate details, the quieter my readers become. Have you all just stopped reading? Well, even if you have, I made the decision to write regardless, regardless of how I feel, and whether or not I have an audience.

I am going to continue on with my story because I enjoy the process, it's liberating and I like the rush.

In the apartment:

The first time I started writing about the apartment I was still on the plane back from Park City. I made my way back to seat 35C after braving the bathroom. I passed a dozen or so people engrossed in their own thoughts, dreams etc. There were some with their mouths open, others eyeing me down-looking for a connection, and some avoided my eyes. I peaked inside the pit of a memory. I caught myself in the soap splattered mirror and immediately saw all the sadness. In a brief moment, I asked myself out-loud in the narrow stall, "What happened to you and why?" I answered back, speaking to my dead grandmother. "Maw Maw, please tell me that did not happen to me!" I knew Maw Maw couldn't answer me, but she was/is my savior. I am not really sure what I was asking myself or what I thought happened, but my gut tells me someone may have crossed my boundaries. In saying so, I am not necessarily saying someone physically harmed me, but my mother definitely subjected me to things not suitable for a child.

She once told me a story about an event that took place in the old apartment. Supposedly, my grandmother pulled me from my mothers arms out of a closet. My mother locked us in during one of her downhill trips on Angel Dust Lane. She was holding me while screaming and crying, knocking around in the darkness. My mother went to drug rehabilitation after that incident-guess it wasn't a very good program. Thankfully, I have no recollection of that event.

Those nights in the apartment when my mother was away I did a lot of thinking for a four years old little girl. I have this one memory of being in my bed with my knobby, little knees curled up tight to my chest. I had a conversation with myself, wondering if I was dreaming. I thought I might wake up to find one or two scenarios. The first: I hadn't born yet, and the second, I am already an adult. It's almost as if I was looking for a way out, or realized at a young age that things weren't right-start over, or skip childhood all together.

I recall that being the first time I actually felt distinctly separate from my body. I allowed my mind and emotions drift off somewhere else, I learned how to disassociate and completely protect myself emotionally from my mother. I managed to lose, although out of necessity, the sacred innocence of a little girl that night. I discovered early on how to detach from people, and how to manipulate in order to have my needs met. Unfortunately, those characteristics followed me into adulthood-where I no longer need them to survive.

I am searching for my inner sweet girl-the one who transcended her situation the best way she knew how. For me, I must move through her (my) experiences by writing about them, hopefully finding forgiveness, and understanding. If you support me, please let me know! If not, don't pretend to be my friend. If it all just makes you too uncomfortable but you want to be my friend, just tell me. If you only read this to mock or judge me, well then, that ones on you.