The other day, as I walked into Whole Foods, I noticed a woman staring at me. It wasn’t just any stare; it was one of those alluring, “I’m interested in you” kind of looks. Even as I made my way to the salad bar, she seemed to be almost right on my heels. I quickly moved to the dairy section, but I could still feel her eyes boring into me. It was uncomfortable. I grabbed a few things from the vegetable aisle and then headed to the candy aisle, where I caught her almost searching for me at the end. When she spotted me, I swiftly turned my back and walked away. You would think that was the weirdest part of it, but it wasn’t. I felt uneasy the moment I saw her looking at me before we even entered the store.
I felt unsafe, like I wanted to vomit. Just thinking about it now makes me nauseous and short of breath. I’m feeling anxious. At first, I thought it was because of all the women my mother said were just friends spending the night in her room. I didn’t understand what was happening when I was little; I just felt like it was something I shouldn’t discuss. I felt jealous because these women, who were desperately seeking my friendship, were taking so much of my mother’s time away from me. This was on top of the men she openly dated.
My sister once told me about a time when she was getting hypnotized for weight loss and remembered something horrible from her childhood. She assumed it was our father, but maybe it was our mother. I believe I was about four or five when the abuse started. I don’t remember much.
My mother kept me isolated from everybody. As I grew, I heard that my father would send me presents and told people that, of course, he would say that. Guilt is a powerful emotion, especially for a man who supposedly abandoned his child. On my 14th birthday, my mother told me I was in trouble for some reason. I asked her if any cards or presents had arrived for me, and she said no. I had known that Cindy, her old personal assistant, had promised to send me a present on moving day. My mom told me to trust her, knowing Cindy better, but she didn’t feel for me the way she said she did. Years later, I found out that Cindy had sent me a gift, but it was returned to sender. Being her personal assistant, she could tell it was my mother’s handwriting on the box. Now, I believed that my father sent gifts as well as my Abuela and whoever else, but because of her, I never received them. She made sure I was always close to her and that she put up with me because no one else wanted to. She could play with me like a toy or a puppet, and no one would know while pressing out horrible narratives about me to keep help at bay.
As the puppet master, she would pull the strings whenever she wanted, and most of the time, it was just because. It was about her ego, and her utter delight over my helpless circumstances was apparent. She was drunk within her own narcissism. Unfortunately, her total control of me was easy once the divorces happened and especially with each move, but thankfully, I, like my sister, had become young women at some point and were luckily thrown away. I was 15 and tossed out because I was too big to be her toy any longer and could fight back.
Will I ever know what happened to me, or is it locked into the recesses of my mind? It’s a gut-wrenching safety mechanism my body has come up with. Hopefully, this will be something out of “Prince of Tides,” and all will be well after this. All my symptoms, my eating issues, my anxiety, and my low self-worth will hopefully come to an end now that we may have the truth I’ve been looking for. Writing this has me experiencing nausea that will not subside. I always felt my life was like the movie “Precious,” but with an incredibly successful white woman. It’s unfortunate that the movie is more believable since it’s set within a poor black community with a poor black mother and her daughter. Many people had respect for my mother for what she had accomplished that it did not occur to them that her daughter was in a horrible set of circumstances because of her. What’s worse is that because of the lies my mother told other people to keep me isolated, most of the people around her thought I was a terrible child. Some of her friends, people I didn’t even know, would feel the need to confront me, and as they were doing so, I could look over to my mother who was relishing every part of it. I would never let anyone speak to my child the way my mother let her fans/friends speak to me.
The reason I’m revisiting memories from my past is because of my session with my psychologist today. Oddly enough, I had a lingering fear that she might dismiss me from therapy. In the past few days, I had sent her two of my writings and worried that she might have felt criticized by them. After two years of therapy, I began to question if she felt we hadn’t delved deep enough into the root of my issues. I was mentally preparing myself for another rejection, but something unexpected occurred. EMDR therapy, which initially seemed implausible to me, has brought forth unsettling memories. Despite my initial skepticism, today’s session left me grappling with the realization that something unpleasant from my past has resurfaced.
To soothe myself, I made mushrooms with Burrata in pasta tonight, but none of it had taste. Even though I sprinkled some salt, pepper, and thyme on it, it was bland. As I sit on my couch, I am unable to move. My dog is patiently waiting for me to take him out for his walk. I am melting into my couch, feeling almost catatonic. I would love marshmallows right now. The sugar craving is real and relentless. I wonder if marshmallows will taste good? Oh god, please give me the sweet distraction I need. The place I always go to. Normally, I would head to the store, but I settle on peanut butter toast and jam. Ah, a gentle reprieve.
As I sit here, grappling with the memories resurfacing from my past and the uncertainty of what lies ahead in therapy, I find solace in the simple act of nourishing myself, even if it’s just with peanut butter toast and jam. Perhaps, in these small moments of comfort, I can begin to unravel the tangled threads of my past and find the strength to face whatever truths may come to light. Though the journey ahead may be daunting, I hold onto hope that by confronting the shadows of my past, I can finally pave the way for healing and reclaiming my sense of self-worth.
