Sometimes I think I’d prefer physical abuse instead of the constant emotional stuff that makes you doubt yourself decades later. Like, my therapist tells me it was bad but they’re a therapist, isn’t that what they’d say? Mommy Dearest told me no one beat me so it’s not abuse. Abuse is complicated.
I’ve got too much baggage associated with Thanksgiving. Among other things, it’s when my mom blew up at me and told me we shouldn’t see each other, outside of funerals. (She is now confused about why I don’t visit, outside of funerals.)
Also, the American colonists overall were dicks to the indigenous folks, and the popular treatment of Thanksgiving helps paper over that history, or maybe that’s just where I grew up.
That’s just because you haven’t met my label maker. It does the letters one at a time, manually, embossed into a strip of plastic.
I love mine. They’re also autistic, have dogs, and call me out when I try and change the subject off of something difficult. At first I worried that meeting over video call would affect how body language is read, but, no, seems to work fine.
My first therapist was also great and had a dog. Maybe that’s the rule?
Oh, and fuck health insurance sideways. They’re consistently at least 6 months behind in reimbursing me for seeing an out-of-network therapist.