Name the Pain

I had a productive therapy session yesterday. I know it was productive because I cried through most of it and felt so exhausted for the rest of the day.

I told my therapist about talking to my sister when she visited recently. We spoke about the moment my mother told us she did not believe in unconditional love, and was done being our parent.

I was 16. She was 8.

My mother had sat us down on the brown corduroy couch in the living room (generally reserved for time with guests) and told us she didn't want to be our mother anymore. It was a family meeting to tell us she didn't feel like being a part of our family.

I had just taken care of our mom through six months of chemo. I had found the lump under her arm. I helped her with her hair as it began to fall out. I hugged her when she cried. I helped my dad with the chores when she couldn't do them because she didn't have the strength. I took photos of her outside in the gardens, dressed in fancy scarves and hats, so that she could see she was still beautiful after her surgery.

And then six months later she said she was done being my mom. Our mom. She was worried about dying and didn't want to spend the time she had left parenting. She wanted to buy a motorcycle instead. 

And she just left.

24 years later I found my husband hanging in the basement of our family's house. I had to sit my children down on the couch, in the living room (generally reserved for time with guests), and tell them their father had died. 

They were 6, 4, and 1.5 years old.

I didn't tell my children he had left them. I just said he died. Then slowly, over four years, I explained suicide.

I told my therapist that I recently realized I had been through the exact same trauma twice. Once as a child, once with my children. Then I cried.

I told my therapist that I realized I do not think people are going to stick around. I am convinced of it. Then I cried.

I told my therapist that I get mad at myself whenever I depend on other people, because I feel weak or like they must hate me for depending on them. I try to do everything for myself. I love myself when I feel strong. I hate myself when I feel weak. Then I cried.

I told my therapist that I hate asking for help. Then I cried.

I told my therapist that he is the only person I really trust, but that is only because I pay him in order to trust him, so I know he will show up the following week. Then I cried.

My therapist gave a name to my hurt. He said I am self-reliant because I have been taught to be. He said I don't trust people because I have been taught not to trust. 

He said there is a name for it, the hurt, and he gave me the name. He told me I was hyper independent. 

It is so good to name the pain. I googled my hurt and read articles about it and I cried a lot more. Yes, that is my pain, written in words by other people. Yes, that is what I feel. Yes, those are my patterns of behavior. 

I don't know why it feels like such a relief to name the pain, to label it. Maybe it helps to just contain all these overwhelming feelings under a two word umbrella. Maybe it makes it seem like because it has a name, like a disease, it might have a solution, too. 

Somehow, just naming the deep hurt feels like a first step towards real healing.