tow the line

I’m trying so hard to not be angry. But I acknowledge that a Trump/GOP bacchanal of injustice is going to trigger me.

I know what my experiences in life have been and I know from talking to those with similar experiences that they are true. TRUE. My father was an abusive alcoholic. My mother is a co-dependent enabler. I think I’m talking about the latter today. (My bartender stacks up my ciders as I write this. The liquid is used to drain the filter. Liquid to not empathize, excuse, not say that those who trespass against me are right to do os.)

Who are you when you mother doesn’t care enough about you to listen to your truth, much less have a conversation about it? Says, “you just didn’t cope well…”

Yeah. Of course not.

How are kids supposed to cope with being abused? How are kids supposed to deal with not being worthy of protection BY THEIR PARENTS? My parents loved me, but they had no interest in protecting me from themselves or each other. I suspect, but do not know, that the strained relationship my mother and I have in my adulthood stems from her guilt. Possibly, but this is an unnecessary extension of culpability that I don’t need or want. I really just wish she was on Team Kris. (She isn’t on Team Kris.)

So then what? I used to imagine my emotional life as me in a row boat with several ropes as tethers. Boyfriend. Best friend. Job. Dog. Each rope tying me to shore, me in the boat. Fetal. Shivering. Scared. What if all the ropes severed? I’ve only got one left. What then?

I’d pick up some oars and paddle.

But paddling doesn’t necessarily matter – these people aren’t imaginary ropes in my head holding a boat into place. They’re real and they continue to hurt. Then what?

Tow the line. What line? Where is there a line? WTF? Seriously?

Yes. Seriously. Pick up the goddamn oars. Feel the line in your head. Heal as you row.