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Jul. 27th, 2006 04:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elizabethI had Yet Another Fight this morning with my mother over Barnard stuff, and despite one tactical error (which I realized as soon as I made it, fuck), I thought I had actually convinced her that I was okay, that I was being proactive, that I had created a support system for myself, that I was doing all the right things and that withdrawing from school was not the right choice.
Which is true.
But she talked to the sophomore class dean later. Who didn't remember me, who gave her a totally different song-and-dance than what I got (I got, "I really think you can turn it around this semester and I'll work with you as much as I can," she got, "It would be a very bad idea for her to come back.")
And my stepfather is kind of pushing the idea of withdrawing, too, and I just don't feel like I can fight all of them.
My therapist agrees with me, by the way. She thinks I should stay at Barnard, that I need to be in school. But my mother talked to her yesterday as well, and she was convinced, almost, she understood my points, and I have no more arguments.
When I have menstrual cramps, it feels like my entire torso below my ribs to the jut of the pubic bone is scooped out, like ice cream. I feel like that now, except that that it's my entire chest that's gone. My bones are bird-hollow, any strong breeze will blow me away (I always wanted to be able to fly), and I can't help but think that would be easier all around, if I could just disappear.
Later: She just agreed that since I am so convinced that I should go back, and since I managed to muster up some new arguments about creating a support network (thanks so fucking much, Dean, I had to agree to call home more often) and such, I can.
Thank God.
Only now I feel guilty because it's against her wishes, essentially, and god forbid I should do anything against her wishes and I'm right, I know I'm right, I can and I will do this, but god, I wish I were one of those people who find release in weeping, because tears only make me feel worse, but I have this great heavy stone, like an altar, in the center of this vast, empty, dark space of my chest, the ribs like vaulted arches, light dim and distant and the floor is worn smooth, and I'm afraid I'll trip and fall, and there will be no one to pick me up when my knees are covered with blood, my hands scraped -- this isn't a church. It's a prison.
Which is true.
But she talked to the sophomore class dean later. Who didn't remember me, who gave her a totally different song-and-dance than what I got (I got, "I really think you can turn it around this semester and I'll work with you as much as I can," she got, "It would be a very bad idea for her to come back.")
And my stepfather is kind of pushing the idea of withdrawing, too, and I just don't feel like I can fight all of them.
My therapist agrees with me, by the way. She thinks I should stay at Barnard, that I need to be in school. But my mother talked to her yesterday as well, and she was convinced, almost, she understood my points, and I have no more arguments.
When I have menstrual cramps, it feels like my entire torso below my ribs to the jut of the pubic bone is scooped out, like ice cream. I feel like that now, except that that it's my entire chest that's gone. My bones are bird-hollow, any strong breeze will blow me away (I always wanted to be able to fly), and I can't help but think that would be easier all around, if I could just disappear.
Later: She just agreed that since I am so convinced that I should go back, and since I managed to muster up some new arguments about creating a support network (thanks so fucking much, Dean, I had to agree to call home more often) and such, I can.
Thank God.
Only now I feel guilty because it's against her wishes, essentially, and god forbid I should do anything against her wishes and I'm right, I know I'm right, I can and I will do this, but god, I wish I were one of those people who find release in weeping, because tears only make me feel worse, but I have this great heavy stone, like an altar, in the center of this vast, empty, dark space of my chest, the ribs like vaulted arches, light dim and distant and the floor is worn smooth, and I'm afraid I'll trip and fall, and there will be no one to pick me up when my knees are covered with blood, my hands scraped -- this isn't a church. It's a prison.
Reposted from LJ, 20 March 2009
