The Girl Without A Face

I’m starting to notice myself becoming less rigid with my life. I’m not holding on as tightly to my daily routine. I’m not having as big of a reaction if something suddenly changes. This has been subtle, I have to look at the little things to see the improvements. I don’t know if everyone could understand, how it feels after all these years, to finally be in charge of all my decisions. Big or small, my opinion is the only one that matters. I don’t have to hide how I feel, I don’t have to be worried I’ll be found out. The gradual ability to be comfortable to make decisions, both big and small, for myself, has allowed me to come to an ease I’ve never known. Maybe that’s where the lack of rigidity is now coming from. I don’t need to hold on so tightly to what’s mine. I own all of myself.

My mother had such strong opinions, said with such conviction that I knew for a fact I would be written off if I disagreed with them. That played out before my eyes with my uncle, her brother. On some level with my sister. She would talk so badly about them to me, calling them evil. I’m ashamed to say I stayed quiet, looking back it was out of fear of disagreeing with her. That was something I could not do, and it was an unspoken rule. Something I learned the hard way in my teenage years. In early adulthood. I knew the consequences. Her cruel words were like nails on a chalkboard. I would do anything to avoid the wrath of going against her.

But her beliefs turned toxic years ago. They went against what most of my friends believed in, hell, they even went against my son’s belief system. I knew to stay silent. To anyone. I know now that everyone believed I was on their side because I was too scared to form an opinion of my own out loud. I didn’t agree with the hostility of my mother’s opinions. But I didn’t want to lose our relationship. This ate away at me for years, and in an odd way it is very closely related to my struggle with the changing of routine and my need to keep things the same. My routine is what I could rely on, what I had control of. Along with what I ate, what I consumed in general of course. But now that it’s been quite awhile that I haven’t had someone abusively in my ear, I am slowly but surely easing up on my need to live the same day over and over and over again. I’m learning again how to make decisions for myself on a whim.

Its the little things that let me know I’m changing for the better. I decided instead of going to get my nails done at the 3 week interval like I have been, to just do them myself. I had a busy afternoon and a change in my son’s schedule, so I decided to go to the gym on lunch. I really enjoyed the mid-day workout. I still struggle with the bigger things, like when my son told me he wanted to drop calculus and could you call the principal, my first reaction was to panic. “What about your transcript, we are about to apply for colleges it’s not that simple.” But then I took a minute to myself, we talked, and I told him to ask his principal a few questions today himself. He did, there has been progress, tomorrow an email will be sent. Progress made there in many ways, I also didn’t make it my problem to resolve. I’m learning how to let my son grow up while re-teaching myself how to be an adult. It’s an interesting combination. And it’s not perfect.

While these things may seem small, they add up to a bigger picture. This whole week I’ve thought to myself how happy I am that I’ve changed jobs. How I am so relieved to not have that stress anymore. And the competing thought that’s accompanied this has been, “Your mom hasn’t even checked in on you in months to see how you are.” I couldn’t imagine doing that to my son. Especially knowing about the breakdown, being alone, changing jobs, etc. etc. Based on past experience I can only imagine the advice she would’ve given if I told her about switching jobs. It would have been some reason why I shouldn’t, or that I wouldn’t be able to be successful at it. Some way to plant doubt. Or fear. Or both. I feel lucky to be free from it yet sad that it was my only choice.

So, back to the original thought. I’m happy to have myself back. I’m happy the abuse has stopped. Sometimes I have to remind myself that that’s what it was. I can find it in the little things, like now instantly knowing the color I want to paint my nails. Or knowing exactly what I want to do, or watch. Or read. Or write. Where before these decisions would bring me anxiety. I look back and feel like I’m continually making progress forward without her there. I guess sometimes you can’t comprehend the impact of something until it’s gone. And you are left to assess the damages in the remains.