After a summer vacation during which I relatively easily came to terms with the fact that my father is my father, I'm back. I've been lurking around other blogs lately, mostly. I'm so happy - and sad - to see so many new blogs all around. Happy because other people are finding this wonderfully therapeutic means to communicate. Sad because so many have had to be born and grow up without love.
Realizing that my father didn't deviously usurp another man's child and lie about it made me feel less anger towards him. He wasn't quite the monster I'd imagined him to be - a bit less so. Merely an impenetrable narcissist who was still better than his mother. This, however, somehow led me to become less alert and aware in my parenting. Lose some feelings that had been back. Become a worse mother.
I wonder: why is it so impossible to feel a bit of empathy for one's narcissistic parents and still retain emotional integrity? Why is what feels a bit like forgiveness actually so dangerous? Can "forgiveness" be close to complacency?
I have to be back to this blog actively in order to live my insights regularly. To always remember what kind of legacy I have and never slip into "oh, well, it wasn't so bad, I should stop whining about how my parents didn't love me and live my life in the present" again.
I got a number for a REBT therapist a colleague of mine recommended. I might actually dial it.
If I go into therapy, my first rule will be "One invalidating comment about my parents/childhood and I'm out." Even the nice, warm, empathetic, stable colleague who actually gave me something that seemed a bit like free therapy, had previously related in the same conversation how she had told a friend that even though her parents didn't love her, at least they gave her ballet lessons - and I cried out "Yeah, and if they blind you and give you nice sunglasses, do you have to shut up about being blind?" And later today, I was still angry about it, and thought of this parallel: if you kill a guy but then "at least" pay for a good make-up job and a nice casket, is it then OK? Fuck that. This shit makes me angry. I'm back and I'm less restrained, angrier, and sometimes swear.
But I do think I need help. I can't seem to get in touch with any emotions on my own at all - apart from constant anxiety, some depression, and a bit of anger here and there. My children deserve more. I do feel good things for them much of the time, but I can also block these feelings sometimes.
My mother will have been dead for 10 years on Monday. I still can't dig up a single feeling about that. Or her. How messed up is that?
I'll try to write all I can find in myself about that on Monday.