There is a lot to be said for what's been left behind.

I called my mother today. If you've read my last post, you'll know that my mother was my abuser, and while there were others, the baggage I have left from her is by far the most significant. Why did I call her? Well, there were a number of reasons-- it had been a few months, I could tell she was getting anxious (the distressed voicemails tipped me off to that one), and though I hate to say it, I miss her. My mother has a number of diagnosed mental illnesses and an abuse history of her own. In my experience not calling leads to a suicide threat or maliciously outing me to the rest of my family. Ultimately, none of the practical reasons to call matter. I have no dependence or relationship with her nor my family any more. The rest of my family disowned me after my mother outed me as trans and gay to them the summer before last, and I have no reason to desire continued contact with her. I miss her or I still care about her apparently. At the very least, I must feel some sense of obligation. I really have no other excuse. I spent twenty years of my life with the woman, many of those years in complete enforced isolation. It's hard to let that go without a few lingering phone calls.

Needless to say, talking to my mom devestates me. She still will not admit that she abused me, and often times she purposefully acts ignorant or innocent to trigger me. I was expecting that when I called. I had a cigarette and glass of wine on stand-by. When she answered she was crying. She had just put my dog to sleep. Fuck. I started crying on the phone, which triggered the hell out of me. I am not nearly ready to be that vulnerable with my mother. I told her I had to go, and sobbed. Thankfully, I had the cigarette and wine nearby. I took a bath (with the wine and cigarette), dried myself, and sat down to write this.

I've been weird lately in regard to my PTSD, which, by the way, I would like to disclaim I have not actually been diagnossed with yet. I haven't seen a therapist or doctor since I moved to Chicago nearly a year ago. It wasn't until after I moved that I started to display more serious symptoms. What I have resembles PTSD most closely, so I use that term in order to more easily communicate what I'm going through. In anycase, I've been fluctuating wildly between super regression/flashback/lost triggered to feeling exactly like I did before I even started to think about any of this, which was a God awful place-- entirely numb, convinced it was either normal or that I wanted it, etc... Reading Freud for my Social Sciences class has certainly not been helping. I have been falling into old habits. This means I've wanted to stay in my room forever, comfort eating, self sabatoging, and whatever semblance of a sex life I had with my SO has fizzled for the time being. I've been purposefully triggering myself by reading horrible incest fics on the internet. Thankfully, I have managed to not have this effect school and my relationship with my SO is still good, but something is going to break and soon.

I'm hoping my dog's death is not the breaking point. My dog's name was Sandy. She was a tan (sandy) colored cocker spaniel. I wasn't very inventive in naming her, I'm afraid. We got Sandy when I was 8 or 9. My time lines aren't very reliable. We got her right before the worst years of the abuse. She was my only friend throughout all of it. I don't know if I'd be alive if it weren't for her. What also gets to me about her death is that I feel that the one creature who I couldn't blame is gone now. Sandy is the only one who never betrayed me with her silence. So many others must have noticed something, but never said. I still have issues today with friends who knew me toward the later years of the abuse, knew what was going on, or knew some of it somehow, but never took that step to tell someone who could help me. I was a troubled kid, and no one ever tried to see what was happening. Teachers, friends, family members, neighbors, no one said a word. I feel like my only friend and witness is gone. It's upsetting. The witness part is throwing me in particular. As my mom is utter denial, there is no one to confirm that I'm not crazy. Of course Sandy couldn't have actually said anything, but she was there. That was always comforting for some reason.

I haven't seen Sandy hardly at all since I moved out of my mother's house. I missed her before her death, and I still miss her. She was one of the many things I had to give up to get out, and now there's not much to go home to, even if I wanted to. She was a good friend, my only for a long time, and a good dog. It is always sad to have a pet die, but I can't help but mix this with my feelings about my abuse, which is why I'm posting my thoughts here.