Not good enough

I returned to Sara's office for another session. Our last session had been particulary stressful, as I was recounting the details surrounding Ericha's death to Sara.

During today's session, we revisited the ideas I had formed about myself throughout childhood. I had decidedly formed some pretty negative opinions about myself, which had made adult life difficult. At times in the recent past, I had been certain that any partner I had, secretly didn't want to be with me and would eventually leave. I thought that it was pure luck to land a decent job, rather than hard work. If a stranger bumped into me without excusing themselves, it must be because they didn't like me, I had thought. I paused during my session, pensive. How have I allowed myself to view myself in this way for so long? I would never treat a friend or family member this way - so why was it okay to put myself down? I began to think of the past.
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Why am I not good enough?

I couldn’t fix my mother. I couldn’t make her happy. No matter what I did, I couldn’t make her happy. I began to think, if she really loved me, she wouldn’t wish so often for death. If I was enough for her, she wouldn’t want to leave me behind.

One fight between my mother and I stands out in my memory. I am about 13. My mother is having one of her “fits” – the kind in which she denounces life on earth. Sobbing, she declares that she no longer wishes to live – she’s in too much pain. She gathers her jacket and purse to leave the house. My mother would sometimes go driving during her fits – she would disappear for hours. I’m not sure where she went or what she did. And when she disappeared – I was never quite sure if she’d return; if I’d see her car turn into our driveway or if some day, as I feared, it would be a police car turning into the driveway, coming to tell me that she had finally killed herself. Every time my mother left, the moments I would wait at the window for her return felt like days.

My mother slammed her purse onto the counter and hurriedly searched through it for her car keys. Suddenly, she looked at me – with rage in her eyes. “Where are my keys, Emily?!?!” I looked at my feet. Her voice grew and became more desperate. “Emily! Where did you hide my keys?!?! Give them to me!” I raised my head and said, “No.” She repeated her request. I repeated my response. She stepped closer to me, angrily screaming. “No mom. I don’t want you to go,” I said. I tried my best to stay calm – one of us had to be. The fear, anger and grief were tussling with each other in my stomach as the sharp pain in my head grew. On the outside – I stood firm. I didn’t want her to go – I didn’t know if I would ever see her again.

Then it came – her rage. As she finally realized I was not going to give her the keys, her anger boiled over. “Don’t you see that I am in pain? Why would you want to keep me in this pain? Why won’t you let me go? I’m in pain! Why would you do this to me?..... No wonder I want to kill myself, with a daughter like you!”’

There is was. The sentence that pierced my heart.