One never knows what comes next

This southern city is not my cup of tea. It’s no Earl Grey latte, hell, it’s not even a Starbucks hot black tea. Still though, I cannot ignore the fact that I’m getting signs from the universe that I am right where I should be.

I landed a job in my field. Pays abysmally less than I made in my prior job with the same experience. But, I’ve met some great people, and become great friends already with one of my colleagues, another proud member of Rainbow Club*.

With some trepidation, I managed to find a DID therapist. She’s crazy expensive, but I can tell she knows what she’s doing. That job I got is not giving me hassle about working from home one day a week so that I can easily go to my sessions. And I can just feel that I’ve reached a new place in my therapeutic process. My last therapist was incredibly supportive of me, but she had no DID experience. I tried a few times to find a therapist in my last city that had DID experience, and it did not go well for many reasons. I sense that it’s time for a new phase in my process, and I’ve found the right person for it. And I am in the right city with the right job and with the right wife to make it all possible.

And, yet, despite all this, I’m aching to ask my new therapist, “It’s all a mistake right, I don’t have this DID thing after all?” The feeling that it’s all made up, and all for attention just permeates my sense of being at times with no warning. It just pops out like a bad, obnoxious pop-up shop on the street with never ending noise and confusion. Then the feeling goes away like it was never there, until it is again.

*Rainbow Club is my own way of describing those of us that identify as LGBTQIA.

Is it an oversight?

Is it an oversight that I can never quite remember my mother’s birthday? It’s somewhere in the realm of Thanksgiving. Some years it actually falls on that day. For as long as I can recall, I’ve never been able to recall the exact date. Nor do I know how old she is. I do know she is a Sagittarius, but only because she would mention it frequently. “I’m a Sagittarius, you know,” she would say. But I never asked what she meant by that, never followed up.

I’ve had doctors ask me, “How old is your mother?” Who knows why this is germane to my medical health.

I say, “I don’t know.”

I usually get blank stares before I hear, “Is she alive?”

“I presume so. I think someone will call me when she passes.” At this point I usually look them in the eye and wait them out to see where they go with this line of questioning. Most get the message and move on.

It certainly has not been an oversight that I’ve rarely written about my mother. It’s the great mystery of my life, my mother. In most instances in my life I am forever curious, with the notable exception of my mother. There’s a wall there because I do not want to know. I do not want to understand. It is so unlike me. I want to understand most things in life, okay, perhaps not calculus. But, if we are talking about crimes, wars, and a complicated legal decision, I’m game. The one exception is my mother.

It stumps me because in many ways I believe I’m empathetic, and I seek to understand others. Perhaps not?

A few years ago a writing teacher told me that my writing would get better when I start to write about my mother. What?! Why is that the key to writing better? Oy. Let it not be so. Alas, though, I think it may be true.

Many years ago I thought I kept forgetting to call my mother back, an oversight, if you will. But, as the days turned into weeks I realized it was not an oversight. I simply did not want to talk to her. But I could not tell anyone why. I didn’t even know why. I just knew I did not want to speak to her anymore. I found my first therapist because of this. When I walked into her office she asked, “How can I help you?” And I said, “I can’t call my mother back, and I don’t know why.”

There are periods of time I cannot recall from childhood, swaths of time. All I’m left with are feelings, and these feelings get misidentified as oversights when, in fact, they are indicative of my true desires.

Today’s post is written in response to Today’s Daily Prompt.