Entry tags:
memoir: Epilogue
I didn't know it at the time, but the uprooted violets marked the end of my cutting. At least, as far as I know: It's been 12 years, but I don't think I'll ever completely trust that I'm done. So yeah, I was cured by a major depressive episode. The events of this memoir — and my era of self-mutilation — lasted almost exactly 10 years.
I continued to see my shrink for another 11 years, until he closed down his practice a year ago. I was his last patient.
I'm still taking Prozac and Risperdal, and probably always will.
Sixteen years after our "breakup," Chris remains one of my closest friends.
I went back to visit my mother a couple of years ago, after not seeing her for nearly 14 years. When I got back, my shrink asked how it had gone, and I said, "Surprisingly well. She treated me like an equal. Like an adult."
"How did you feel about that?"
"It was weird. But nice. I mean, it's good when your parents respect you."
"That's an awfully self-centered view of the relationship."
I didn't even have to glance at him to see his sardonic smile. "Go onnnn."
"Well, you're assuming that your mother's respect of you has anything to do with you. With how deserving you are of respect. Which presumes that 14 years ago, 20 years ago, 30 years ago, you were not deserving of respect. That's a dangerous presumption."
On one hand, it kind of burst the warm, fuzzy bubble I'd blown around myself. I felt the edge of that anguishing, aching hunger that usually followed a visit with my mother, or even a phone call. On the other hand, though, it was deliciously subversive. And true. I've recently lost her respect again — incurred her muted wrath, even — and while it stung, it didn't crush me. Actually, I felt the opposite of crushed: expansive. Whole.
The violets returned in the spring, of course. They are weeds. It's not an epithet; it's a compliment. I've learned that violets and pansies are related; there's an Arlo and Janis comic where Janis is admiring her spring flowers and thinks to herself, "Pansies aren't." In addition to the violets, when I moved into the duplex, I transplanted grape hyacinths, snow glories, white daffodils, and bearded irises. When I moved out eight years ago, I dug up most of them to plant in my new yard, but it was summer, and I'm sure I missed some of the dormant bulbs; I also deliberately left some of the irises. Maybe this spring I'll finally go back and see what's growing.
I continued to see my shrink for another 11 years, until he closed down his practice a year ago. I was his last patient.
I'm still taking Prozac and Risperdal, and probably always will.
Sixteen years after our "breakup," Chris remains one of my closest friends.
I went back to visit my mother a couple of years ago, after not seeing her for nearly 14 years. When I got back, my shrink asked how it had gone, and I said, "Surprisingly well. She treated me like an equal. Like an adult."
"How did you feel about that?"
"It was weird. But nice. I mean, it's good when your parents respect you."
"That's an awfully self-centered view of the relationship."
I didn't even have to glance at him to see his sardonic smile. "Go onnnn."
"Well, you're assuming that your mother's respect of you has anything to do with you. With how deserving you are of respect. Which presumes that 14 years ago, 20 years ago, 30 years ago, you were not deserving of respect. That's a dangerous presumption."
On one hand, it kind of burst the warm, fuzzy bubble I'd blown around myself. I felt the edge of that anguishing, aching hunger that usually followed a visit with my mother, or even a phone call. On the other hand, though, it was deliciously subversive. And true. I've recently lost her respect again — incurred her muted wrath, even — and while it stung, it didn't crush me. Actually, I felt the opposite of crushed: expansive. Whole.
The violets returned in the spring, of course. They are weeds. It's not an epithet; it's a compliment. I've learned that violets and pansies are related; there's an Arlo and Janis comic where Janis is admiring her spring flowers and thinks to herself, "Pansies aren't." In addition to the violets, when I moved into the duplex, I transplanted grape hyacinths, snow glories, white daffodils, and bearded irises. When I moved out eight years ago, I dug up most of them to plant in my new yard, but it was summer, and I'm sure I missed some of the dormant bulbs; I also deliberately left some of the irises. Maybe this spring I'll finally go back and see what's growing.
