Kicked Out

I have been kicked out of many things in my life.  Some of them were institutions that promoted love  and understanding.  I was kicked out of Brownies – that’s the step below Girl Scouts.  You know that song you sing with your troop it has the line “My honor is to try and my duty is to love?” They were loving me right out the door.

I was kicked out of youth group.  Youth Group – where you go to church during the week to hang out with others that love God and talk about how you need to be accepting of all people – kicked out.  I was kicked out.

Most recently, I was kicked out of couples counseling – where you go to make things better with your partner.  Yea, asked to go somewhere else to work on my “issues.”  I have mentioned before that I am working on some codependency issues but the couples counselor felt that I wasn’t allowing us to progress do to other issues.

I was still too hung up on my daddy issues and my ex-spouse issues and my mommy issues.  I need to find someone else to pay to work those out before we can go back to work on the relationship.  Last I checked, our problem wasn’t my dad being an addict.  Or my mom being apathetic.  Or my ex being a douche.  Now all of these can contribute.  Yea, yea, yea.  I know.  But I can have some current, up to date, complaints that are legitimate and worthy of discussion.  Worthy of repeating.  Worthy of standing up against.  I can and I do.

I haven’t dismissed the “work on the past to help the future” decision made for me.  I have gotten underway discussing all the wonderful things about my family and I feel like shit.  My new therapist has told me that I was physically abused – by today’s definition.  I am not attaching myself to that bullshit.  I got the hanger.  To me, it’s just what happened when I was a pain in the ass.  Or the belt when I was a pain in the ass.  Or the brush, spoon, chair.

I was a pain in the ass.  I still wouldn’t say I was abused.  Would I?  I am having a difficult time enough trying to set appropriate boundaries for the members of my family that don’t know what they are or give a flying fuck about them.  I am not going to run home for Thanksgiving and say, “You abused me.”

It doesn’t matter.  It wouldn’t change the past or the future.  These people aren’t capable of change.  They are nice enough on the phone but they can’t even clean up when I visit.  Or the other half can’t even call at all.  They have too much.  They’re just as unhappy as I am.  They need just as much help as I do.  They aren’t going to get it.  They don’t want it.  They aren’t there yet.  They may never be there.

This is my own thing.  I have to heal without confronting.  The response would halt any progress.  My awareness is sometimes great, sometimes lacking.  The irony may be right in front of me.  But maybe I’m not there yet either.