Out

My concerns and my feelings were met with condescension and frustration.

I guess, 8 weeks out of rehab, I'm supposed to be able to miraculously stop identifying patterns that led, in the past, to relapse.

In other words, my feelings are insignificant, and shouldn't exist. Of course, part of her explanation was that, naturally, her feelings made perfect sense, and therefore shouldn't be a source of concern for me.

Okay then.

They're not.

But then, she had trouble in the shower, some sort of trigger, and who was expected to be there to hold, and validate, and console? Yeah, me.

My kids reacted with a shrug when I got home from my trip. I come, I go, it is neither a source if concern, nor a source of comfort, for them. I'm there. I'm the rock. It's my job. And if I step out of that role, as I did tonight, now I am a monster, to be hated.

At least they like my chili. I guess. Or something.

I was only home tonight because I refused to go to group. Why bother? My feelings do not matter and should not exist, because they're silly. Silly things are not worth the effort to process.

Tomorrow is likely to be our last couples session. Why bother? I should be done with my anxiety, right? My pattern recognition is all triggering in the wrong way, so I'll just shut it the hell off.

It's my fault she was stuck calling her mom anyway, because of my unfounded anxiety about email. If I had just let her email, she wouldn't have called her mom and none of that would be a worry to me anymore.

Comments

[Blood Dragon]

Is there no one, in this treatment process, that can see what is happening to you and tell her? Clearly, you telling her isn't working; she's hearing what she wants. Blaming others for...hey, wait a minute.
No, I'm not going to say it.

Back to my question.
Is there no one to stand for you?
Is there no one she will listen to, that can see and hear what is happening with you?

WHY IN THE FUCK ARE YOU INVISIBLE?!

And what - if anything - can I do to help?

[ytrozs]

I've almost said it a dozen times in the last 24 hours.

I walked, for over an hour, on Sunday morning to try to get past my anger, and get to what was underneath. What was underneath was hurt and fear. And when I got to the point where I could express that as rationally as I could, well . . . that's what I was met with.

88 fucking days of her getting the goddamn *privilege* of having nothing to do but work on her issues. And 8 weeks out, I'm just to fucking be better. Because . . . I was afforded that privilege as well? Because . . . I'm supposed to forget the last 18 months? Because . . . oh . . . wait . . . .

Because I'm the fucking rock. Now I remember.