Of Damaged Goods and Positivity

Maybe two or three souls in the universe know this secret about me….I am, in a way, two-faced.

When I go out into the world, people see a poised, always fun-loving, perpetually happy, down-to-earth girl with all her shit together; someone confident and sure of herself and her place. Well, this is not so. In private, in those moments when only the few can witness, I am full of anger, fear, anxiety, and doubt. I am most certainly not that self-assured person the rest of the world gets. I can feel very lost, confused, despondent. Insecure.

Why?

Is it because of my addict mother; and the resulting environment in which I grew up? I really don’t know. But I think and think and think on it, and wonder if….

She is everything that’s wrong with me.

Her promises of “never doing it again” dissolved into falsities every time and she always claimed “I’m not high” or “I wasn’t high then” when she clearly was.  Are these the reasons I question the lot of what everyone says or automatically think they are lying to me?

Is she why I’m so shy and introverted, because it was always easier to hide than explain my home life to friends?

It seems impossible for me to simply trust. Is that because childhood was a series of one disappointment after another?

Is that environment the reason I still let my imagination run wild with terrible thoughts, too often jumping to conclusions, because I was never really told about what was going on and had to fill in the blanks for myself?

Parties, gatherings, and being out in public whenever it involved my mother while she was high were certainly strained and uncomfortable.  So do I tend to feel socially awkward because it’s become expected that all encounters must be like that?

Is this all why I feel threatened and assume everyone and everything is against me, because it seemed like the whole world was back then?

Is she the reason I have a need to completely control my universe, because I (or anyone else) could never control, sway, or help her?

Is my default position one of nervousness and anxiety because that’s the behavior she modeled?

Am I very reserved because joyousness and being carefree tended to get crushed by harsh realities that no child should have to endure?  Perhaps my reticence was the only calm I could muster in my life.

Am I programmed to ignore issues and pretend problems aren’t there because no one ever really addressed hers head on?

Do I find it so hard to change because she never did (never will)?

Can I not admit when I’m wrong because until just recently she hadn’t, and because all my life I watched her not own up to her mistakes?

I could go on and on about my super-fast fuse, my impatience, my emotional volatility, my constant expectation of disappointment, my….patterns that need to break.

I guess I have been conditioned.

Now maybe it seems like I'm just looking for someone to blame, or grasping at straws, but there really does seem to be a correlation in my eyes.  And I’m not the only one who has put forth this theory.  The fact is -- as I got older, the more in depth I came to talk to my mother about her addiction, the more details I learned, and the longer I had to pretend to be strong and tough; keeping up appearances….the more depressed I became and the worse my own secret existence got.

So, the beans are spilled.  I am damaged goods.  I learned from destructive and inconsistency, and became them myself.  Certain parts of my private life have spiraled out of control to a pretty dark place.  I realized the other day, as small a detail as it might seem, that I don’t even sing in the car anymore. I used to do that, a lot. What happened to me?

I’ve had friends tell me I am very brave for my writings on the subject of my mother. Brave? I say scared, and worried about the consequences of putting this all out there where she too can find it. They think I am strong. Strong? No. It’s only because of those friends and their support that I have been able to do this at all. Unstable is probably a better descriptor of me right now. Definitely weak.  Certainly wary and always ready for battle; feeling fight-or-flight; claws at the ready.

But no more. Something has got to give. I’m getting too damn old to let it affect me like this anymore. So now I’ve written it down for all the world to read. It’s as real as it’s ever going to get. Change begins today. She is her own version of two-faced; switching from good to wicked, seemingly randomly, at the drop of a hat. But I do not want to be, I can’t be, her!

She brings so much negativity, and I don’t want to write about her anymore. I’m tired of feeling compelled to check my trash and message filters when I don’t even want to hear from her, and then having to consult with others to find out if what she wrote is even true.  I don’t want to spend any more time talking about her, and what to do about her, when she isn’t even around or in any condition to participate.  I am drained of worrying what she will do in response to me refusing to see her; when she’s left at home alone.  I want to be able to encounter other people in the world who have her same issues and not be triggered immediately by them into an adverse mood.  I can no longer reward her cyclical behavior by continuing my presence in her life even if only on the goods days – it feels too….inauthentic, like I’m pretending.  I need to not feel like I can overcome the guilt only when I am so angry that it’s superseded.

I’m turning the corner. Healing.

I recently made the decision to cut her out of my life at least for the time being; until (if ever) the good parts of her far outweigh the bad and I can forgive her; until the point where she can control herself and respect my needs, too. She needs to be a choice, a desire; not an obligation.  Maybe it won’t be the entire solution to all of my misery, but that was step one -- removing a vast unyielding uncertainty. Now, starting at this very moment, I am going to practice being trusting, being confident, being enthusiastic, being more engaged, being even-keeled, being more attentive, being more happy, being more stable….being more alive.

Positivity!

Until I damn well get it right.  For me, and for you.

I need you now, world, because I am going to take you for all the strength and support you will afford me, until I truly am what everyone thinks I am, what I want and need to be -- brave, secure, confident, full of self-esteem, and all those other things that I so desperately long for. And it will be hard. And I will screw up along the way.

Small victories – one at a time.

It’s time. My life depends on it.  I no longer want to have to put on that second face – I need it to actually be my one face.

End rambling.  Reboot.

Robin Donoghue

The sly and trusty Robinator is a square peg – 

not fitting easily into any single category, living not just inside and outside of the box, 

but all mixed up in a pile of them. She’s a walking contradiction  (in the good way) – 

having a wide, diverse range of interests, not being defined by any one thing, 

and willing to try pretty much anything at least once. 

Born and raised in Somerville, this lifelong athlete, foodie who almost always ends up with 

pasta sauce on her (especially when it’s white) shirt, mother of two cats, free-spirited hippie at heart whose socks never match, is socially awkward, yet a flirt, too.  She enjoys photography, traveling, generally being creative, and practically requires having pockets.  When she grows up, she wants to get an RV and be a nomad with her dear husband, or live on a self-sustaining 

intentional community with all the best people she knows and loves.

Walking Away

Looking back at old smiling pictures, I wonder: were you high then?

How about that one, and this snapshot, or in the album over there?

We sure seemed like a happy family.

And I know we had lots of good times.

So was I just not aware?

Was I oblivious to what was going on around me because I was only a child,

too small to understand?

At what point did I become conscious of what was happening;

that you were almost always high at every party,

for every holiday gathering, during every wedding and funeral.

Did I then simply start ignoring your behavior to protect myself,

to ease the weight on my psyche of never knowing what condition you’d be in,

of having to always be prepared for every possibility, every scenario.

At what point did I go from that happy (looking) little kid to who I am now –

cringing, dreading every time I’m slated to see you,

either individually, at a family party, or otherwise?

Because I never know how you’ll be, how you’ll act, what you’ll say.

Because I never know which you I’ll get,

or exactly how uncomfortable you might make us all feel.

You make me not want to be there, around lots of other people that I love and miss.

Because it’s easier to not have to deal with you there, too.

Because I feel like I am responsible for you in those group settings.

Does everyone else think I am your keeper?

Am I?

You obviously have some sort of anxiety that caused(es) you to drug-up for events,

and on plenty of regular days, too.

But the rest of us do not deserve the price.

And we are not your solution.

Most of the time now, I avoid you,

because I can’t stand not knowing which you I’m going to get.

Would I have done that when I was a child if I could have?

I don’t know.

What was life like before my eyes were opened?

I can tell in an instant, now, as an adult -- one glance; one breath; one word.

That’s all I need.

But what the heck did I know back then?

By a certain age, I knew a damn ton more than a child should have.

Am I giving up all of those happy memories,

rejecting the good times that really did happen, denying their existence;

if, when, I walk away now?

I don’t want to.

Can I keep and cling to the old joy, all the while declaring,

accepting and knowing that there's no future?

Would that be legit?  Ethical?  Acceptable?

I hope so.

So many questions still unanswered.

Is there someone, anyone who can tell me it’s okay to walk away?

Because I’m doing it anyway.

Walking away.

I have to.

I have told you that if you want to do drugs, go ahead –

because you’re an adult that can make your own choices;

just keep it away from me and anyone else who doesn’t want to see it.

But you can’t.

You cannot control it.

You cannot control yourself.

I, however, can control me, and what I let into my life.

No more apologies.

No more gifts.

No more manipulation.

No more guilt.

No more anger.

No more surprises.

No more promises.

No more you.

When (if) I can ever be confident in your state of mind, your status,

how you will be on a given day – constantly, consistently –

when I can know without a doubt that you’ll be fine and good –

then, we can resume some kind of relationship.

On my terms.

Turning, walking away, MY healing begins.

This is about me now.

Turning over a whole tree full of proverbial new leaves.

Deleting the past pain, so that I can’t even revisit it if I wanted to.

1…

2…

3…

Now.

Risk.

Leap.

Robin Donoghue

The sly and trusty Robinator is a square peg – 

not fitting easily into any single category, living not just inside and outside of the box, 

but all mixed up in a pile of them. She’s a walking contradiction  (in the good way) – 

having a wide, diverse range of interests, not being defined by any one thing, 

and willing to try pretty much anything at least once. 

Born and raised in Somerville, this lifelong athlete, foodie who almost always ends up with 

pasta sauce on her (especially when it’s white) shirt, mother of two cats, free-spirited hippie at heart whose socks never match, is socially awkward, yet a flirt, too.  She enjoys photography, traveling, generally being creative, and practically requires having pockets.  When she grows up, she wants to get an RV and be a nomad with her dear husband, or live on a self-sustaining 

intentional community with all the best people she knows and loves.

Too Much

“I just want to be able to talk to you, is that asking too much?”

Yes.

Right now, at this point, it is asking too much.

You emailed my brother and I –

stating that you’re scared and alone, and begging us to talk to you.

He who you know wants to hear nothing from you and hasn’t for well over a year now,

and me who you were told had blocked your emails.

So, what are you doing?  Why did you bother?

Your tactic this time wasn’t to lay on a guilt trip, but rather to try and make us feel bad for you.

Same old, same old.

Different but no different.

Do you know why you are alone and scared?

Because you drove everyone away and we’ve all decided to move on, each in our own manner,

without you…for now.

I took the brave, bold step and told you – flat out, point blank – that yes, it is asking too much;

that this was the current last straw in an ongoing series of them.

Will you honor my wishes, my needs, this time?

Just this once?

How long will it be before you contact me again without my consent?

It usually lasts only a couple of weeks.

Please.

Put your children before you.

Let them heal while you do what you need to do.

“Yes, for the time being, that is asking too much.

I am absolutely 100% done dealing with your drug use.

I love you, too – that's why I need to be left alone until *I* say so.

So take care of yourSELF, and don't email me again.”

Robin Donoghue

The sly and trusty Robinator is a square peg – 

not fitting easily into any single category, living not just inside and outside of the box, 

but all mixed up in a pile of them. She’s a walking contradiction  (in the good way) – 

having a wide, diverse range of interests, not being defined by any one thing, 

and willing to try pretty much anything at least once. 

Born and raised in Somerville, this lifelong athlete, foodie who almost always ends up with 

pasta sauce on her (especially when it’s white) shirt, mother of two cats, free-spirited hippie at heart whose socks never match, is socially awkward, yet a flirt, too.  She enjoys photography, traveling, generally being creative, and practically requires having pockets.  When she grows up, she wants to get an RV and be a nomad with her dear husband, or live on a self-sustaining 

intentional community with all the best people she knows and loves.

When Do I Quit

I don’t want to play this game anymore.
When can I quit?

Are 37 years long enough?

How many times do I have to witness you pill yourself into a stupor yet again,
and again, and again, and again?

How many car accidents?

How many completely incoherent emails,
sent out of the blue, surprising me and sullying an otherwise nice day;
so that I’ve had to filter you out of my Inbox completely.

How many trips to the hospital; to rehab?

How many ruined family events, holidays, parties, gatherings must we all endure?

How many lost jobs? And your bosses contacting me.

How many phone calls must I dodge or screen,
because I never know if you’ll be sober or high?
Except when you call late at night – then I know for sure.

And I can tell within one breath. Despite what you want to believe.

How much of you interjecting your shit into everyone else's lives,
when they least need or want or can stand it;
when they have begged you not to.

When is enough, enough, of you breaking promises,
and then trying to win us back, smooth things over, with gifts or assurances?

How many more people will you suck into this...

Roller coaster.

Guilt.

Secrets.

Cycle.

Are 37 years long enough?

How much embarrassment can I bear to even be connected to you at all anymore,
because you are….my mother.

How much?

When?

Is it when my brother disowned you,
and told me he doesn’t regret it for one second?

Is it when my father finally decided to divorce you after 43 years of marriage;
probably the scariest thing he could ever do,
because he worries how you’ll survive without him,
because he doesn’t know how to be alone.

Is it when you started insulting, attacking me and my husband?
Throwing around incredibly asinine accusations?

Or is it when I contemplate what I’d say in your eulogy –
that I’d tell everyone it’s okay to feel relieved!!

Because I have thought about that, you know.

A lot.

What. the. fuck.

At what point are the good times no longer worth the bad?

You are always there;
hanging over me like the shoe that just won’t drop.

You will never stop.
You have told me you don’t want to.
You are out of control,
yet apparently indestructible.

I didn’t choose to have you in my life;
so how much (more) do I owe you because we are blood?
Inextricably linked.

Don't you know that I am not, and cannot not be, your therapist?

Taking sides.

Please stop telling me that I am your only reason to live…

Unfair.

Pressure.

Up and Down.

Jekyll and Hyde?

Cycle.

When does all this bad finally outweigh the good,
which really is in there, intermittently?

Will I ever not feel awkward when someone asks "how's your mom?"

Hiding.  Covering up.

I don’t want this stress.
I don’t need this drama.

Trauma.

I am afraid to tell you where I work - you might show up again.
I had to take away your key to my house.
I could never let you babysit my children, were I to have any.
But I won't.

You are not a small reason.

What qualifies as the last straw?

Am I old enough and wise enough and mature enough now,
that I can make the decision to walk away?

Don’t I have to-- can’t I --
put my SELF, my needs, my wants,
first now?

Minus the guilt?

On a flat ground;
no roller coasters looming in the distance?

I think you are toxic to my sanity, to my comfort.

I don't trust.
You.
Because of you.

I can't play this game anymore.
When do I quit?

Are 37 years long enough?

They must be.

Are they?

Guilt.

Robin Donoghue

The sly and trusty Robinator is a square peg – 

not fitting easily into any single category, living not just inside and outside of the box, 

but all mixed up in a pile of them. She’s a walking contradiction  (in the good way) – 

having a wide, diverse range of interests, not being defined by any one thing, 

and willing to try pretty much anything at least once. 

Born and raised in Somerville, this lifelong athlete, foodie who almost always ends up with 

pasta sauce on her (especially when it’s white) shirt, mother of two cats, free-spirited hippie at heart whose socks never match, is socially awkward, yet a flirt, too.  She enjoys photography, traveling, generally being creative, and practically requires having pockets.  When she grows up, she wants to get an RV and be a nomad with her dear husband, or live on a self-sustaining 

intentional community with all the best people she knows and loves.