Friday, October 15, 2010


Intellectually I know my mother is wrong. Intellectually I know it's all crap. My heart doesn't know intellect or rationality. My heart doesn't listen to me.  This blog isn't about intellect or rationality.  This blog is about my heart.

The way I protect myself in life is by not having feelings or by only having muted feelings--good or bad.  I don't feel things.  Feelings hurt.  Feelings are scary.  Feelings suck!  It takes quite a lot to make me cry, even get my eyes to water.  Today in therapy I sobbed.  My therapist also fought back tears, I think.  I guess that makes me feel like maybe she kind of cares about me.  Maybe.  Or maybe it was like watching a sad movie or reading a sad book.  The scene is sad and that makes you cry but you don't really care about the people involved. 

I cried because this is the first time my mother ever admitted to me that she doesn't love me.  It's the first time I realized that she has never loved me.  She couldn't love me.  I always told myself that she loves me but she's too sick to be able to show it right now or the right way.  I always believed that underneath her hatred was her love for me.  I was very very wrong.

She's right.  I'm unlovable.  The person who created my life, who gave me half of herself can't love me.  How in this world can I expect anyone else to be able to love me?  Maybe there is something wrong with me.  I came out wrong.  I came out unlovable.

When I was a child my mother would beat me and lock me in closets--sometimes for days.  When she took me out of the closet she would hug me, rock me, tell me she was sorry and that she loved me.  I think I preferred that to this email.  That was less painful.  That made more sense to me.  I thought she loved me then.  I thought she loved me even though I was bad.  She loved enough to teach me how not to be so unlovable.

She's right--no one did love me.  No one.  From the age of zero to eighteen I lived in 42 homes, shelters, and institutions.  42!  forty-freaking-two!!!  26 of those were foster families.  19 of those were foster families after the age of eight.  10 of those were potential adoptive families.  3 families said they would adopt me but then decided they couldn't love me.  Zero of those families kept me.  Nobody wanted me.  Nobody wants me.  I tried so hard to be lovable.  I really did.  I was quiet.  I helped around the house.  I got good grades.  I was athletic.  I tried so hard to be what everybody wanted.  I wanted so badly for someone to love me.  I wanted so badly to have a family.  I wanted a family more than I wanted anything.  I would have done anything for someone--anyone to call my very own.  No one wanted to call me their own and they always threw me away--I mean pretty much literally.  I always had to pack up my stuff and put it in garbage bags when I moved.  I was garbage.   

No matter how old I get, I still want my mom.  I still want my mom to love me.  I still want a mommy.  I still want a family.  I still want to be lovable.  No matter how many years I spend in therapy, that's never going to happen for me.