Well, I came back to my office, did the phone call I needed to do, then shut my door and listened to The Wall until it was just impractical to hide from people.
I told my therapist everything I could think to tell her. She said, “So, you were repeatedly assaulted. Repeatedly verbally assaulted. And then they wanted you to do nice things for them.”
She asked me if I had any food in my fridge.
She asked me if I was leaving the house.
She asked me if I was fantasizing about being dead.
She asked me if I tried to kill myself.
Was I doing drugs?
Was it interfering with my ability to go to work and function?
I asked her if psychologically defensive narcolepsy was a thing and she said not really, but most likely my brain had just shut down in order to protect me and, if it only happened once, I shouldn’t worry about it happening again.
I told her how I feel like my coping mechanism for dealing with my parents–just going with the flow, being a leaf upon the river of their ridiculousness–contributed to me feeling unreal the longer I hang around them.
She said that repeatedly having your boundaries disregarded will make you feel unreal. And I’ve been thinking so hard about that, how we are who we are because we can firmly say “This is where I start. This is where I end. These things are me. These things are not me.”
But if you can’t enforce those lines? If you can’t keep others from rushing in and taking over, then, fuck yeah, you start to feel unreal. You’re missing your outside edge.
I also talked to the youngest member of the League of Publishing Gentlemen about this, too, about how my strategy between Thanksgiving and Christmas had just been that I could deal if I was not in my right mind.
And he said, “So, you could handle it if you were someone else.”
Which, ouch, but yes.
So, yeah, I’m back in therapy.
Also, listening to a lot of Pink Floyd.
Oh, and I finished this afghan except for the tail-tucking.