The Broken Clock
For 4 brutal decades, I was distraught over the confusing swings of mood(with me indicated as THE cause) by my mother, sister, and later my husband/now ex-husband. At times there would be eye contact, engaging conversation, and something resembling connection– then long periods of averted eyes and zero acknowledgment when addressed, or a surprising character assassination in response to something from months or even years earlier. Then, compliments, gifts, or initiatives to engage, close on the heels of emotional vacancy or barely contained rage- impossible to discern which. It is too much.
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My recent exchange with my mother awakened in me the exact “nature” of my lifelong experience, as her dependent and child. If I said I was cold, rather than a sweater, snuggle, or blanket, I was offered a reading of the thermostat as proof that I could not feel that way (if I were normal, worthy, and honest). When I reported hunger or need a restroom, similarly, I was reminded of having recently eaten or relieved myself, OR that I was just too fucken much. Support was available only when she shared the sentiment. When my experience differed, I was reported to be equal parts incorrect and troublesome. I literally learned to doubt myself at a cellular level. I was wrong about things, over which technically, I would be the ultimate authority: hunger, exhaustion, fear, sadness, cold, a full bladder. Right? 
After more than a year of wrestling with the reality of having my family of origin show me for the last time how little I mean to them, I am feeling as if maybe I am ready, to intentionally, for a few minutes each day, focus on doing something physically, mentally, spiritually to elevate the quality of living for myself. It has been difficult to exist in close proximity to people dedicated to erasing and silencing me. My internal fight with this reality has been all-consuming.