Inside most survivors there is a deep hole that so desperately wants to be filled, mothered. I put that need on auntie. It was unreal and no doubt part of a rescue fantasy.
I’ve been trying to talk to her for some days but she wouldn’t pick up or interact much with me. I felt the distance and it hurt. She has PTSD too and just text me saying she chose not to become too engaged and to keep a healthy distance to protect herself so she can function and pay bills.
I get it but the hurt kid in me is hurt again.
She is being very clinical with me again speaking to me from behind her therapist mask texting me clinical information about what is happening to me right now such as having anticipatory catastrophic anxiety about my dad not making it out of surgery on his spine. I want a human voice that shares some of my genetics to just tell me everything will be ok and I’m here for you. I understand you.
I so badly want support from her, but she cannot give it to me like I want. This week, I tried to reach out to one other female family member but she didn’t want to get too close either.
The hardened yet vulnerable kid inside me lays under the covers and cries and wonders what is so wrong with me that my family can’t be there for me? The healthy part of me knows I’m a trigger for her in a sense.
My abandonment wound is getting the scab pulled off and bleeding again profusely.