Regret. It’s a nasty word. It’s one that just sometimes can’t help but seep into our bones on the odd occasion. But it is one of the most unhelpful and most draining things for our Soul, that we could do.
I realise, instead of regret, I tend to wonder.
Why did I do that? Why did I think it was a good idea to do that? Why didn’t I do that? Why did I not just keep going a little bit more, and push through and finish that project? Why…?
This wondering can cause a spiral to self-judgement and self-disgust, doubting the decisions I have made and wishing for them to have been different…just that one fucking time. But my Wondering, as much as it has loved to take that path, it seems to prefer the path of inquisition. The Wondering becomes a genuine inquiry into why I did what I did. Not for judgment of myself, but almost like a ‘why’ to the World…to life. Why did that stuff happen, why did I do what I did, life? What was it to bring me next?
One particular thing that is running through my mind when I think about this is the question…
Why did I call my mother…?
Two days before the overdose. The thing that fundamentally caused the overdose: a conversation with my mother. Why did I call her? What the FUCK was I thinking?
I had been living in California for 5 months. I hadn’t spoken to her for the entire time. Except for a Skype call on Christmas day, and a phone call a couple of days following, but these didn’t count because she was on her Breakdown/Pre-Psychosis Planet. During these 5 months in Cali my PTSD and anxiety had been developed, had slowly riddled its way into my daily life, and was now what I was facing to deal with. My mother was the main trigger for the PTSD…the main cause of the all the shitty trauma (bar one thing). She was the one that fucking started all of this.
So it just makes sense that she was the one that almost ended it too. In a way it feels logical that she had this role. But I didn’t succeed, and fuck I’m glad I didn’t. But why did I call my mother that day? What was I thinking?
To call The Route Cause Of Your Trauma when you are in the world of reliving it (through therapy or flashbacks), is just plain silly…it is not a done thing in the land of PTSD.
I remember it so well. And I do know what I was thinking. A couple of things. I was thinking how I wanted to try for one last time to have a mum. I needed money…I was skint. I had about $40 to my name. I had some in a savings account, but I needed the telephone number of a distant family member in order to access it. The thing is, I didn’t need to call my mother. I could have called my sister. I could have emailed my mom. In fact, I could have emailed the lady that I needed to phone…I had her flippin’ email address. And I didn’t even need to call her…an email would fucking do. So why the fuck did I CALL my mom?
There was this part of me that went ahead and dialled her number, despite all the inner instinct that this is not the right thing to do. This part of me that called, wanted to try to see if I could take my mum up on the offer she used to throw at me from time to motherfucking time:
“If I’ve fucked you up so much, I’ll pay for your therapy.”
I remember this flying out of her mouth. I never did anything with it because, fuck, I was NOT going to therapy. Not to sit there and speak about this fucking lunatic that raised me. That was the last thing I wanted to do. Mainly for her sake, I realise now.
But in California I did. I spent 4 months twice weekly, in therapy. And so, seeing as I had been spending $100 a week, and this had been a big reason as to why I had dwindled my funds, I remember having a baseline intention for my phone call. I didn’t want to acknowledge it properly at the time, but basically, the reason I was calling my mum up was to see if she would follow through with her offer she used to throw at me for all those years. I wanted to see if, for once, she would be my fucking mother. I wanted to see if she would give me the money I needed.
But she didn’t…she wasn’t.
She was the complete opposite. She was indescribably awful. What came during the call was trauma – another fucking shitload.
In that moment of inquisitiveness…that moment of wondering…I called the person I wanted so much to have changed. I called the person that I KNEW had not, would not, and will not ever change, but the person for whom I had always carried a candle of hope that she might…that this time it would be different…that she might finally be the mom she could be.
I called her because something inside me must have known that I needed this to happen, to bring me to overdose, to bring me to where I am now. That has to be it. That has to be the Why. Why else?
I don’t regret that I called her, I just wish I fucking hadn’t. But I wish that the whole thing – the overdose and what followed – didn’t happen. Or didn’t need to happen. But when I sit and wonder what would have happened had I not called her, I see that actually what followed this call, really was something that needed to happen. As fucked up as it sounds, I think I needed to overdose. The way I work is that I don’t do things in moderation. I either do them or I don’t. I needed a kick up the ass, a rebirth, a transformation, to enable me to crumble and fall, and ultimately: heal.
I regret that my mother was the trigger for this. I regret that she got this role in this story. But she got this role because in those twenty minutes when I needed her most, she showed her true colours. She showed me her what she is made of. She had shown me what she was made of for the 24 years previous, but I had not been in therapy, or been out of the situation enough to truly see her. That day in San Francisco was different. I had begun to create the me that was solely me, and not her, and calling her took me right back to her. And this shit and abuse that came with it.
So actually, I don’t mind that she plays this part in this story. Because, for once, I get to show the world what a true mess it was. She was.