Just some ruminations

Five Mondays ago I left 78 Gooding Street, the place where I'd lived for most of my life and moved into a high-rise for the elderly and disabled.  I'm not sure what I was expecting to find.  I hoped that it would be a better life than what I'd had, in a moldering, musty, dusty, cluttered apartment in a house that was falling apart.  My brother says that by moving, I laid some ghosts to rest. 

There are a lot of ghosts in my life, some I have laid to rest, some that still haunt me.  I think that's true for everyone.  One thing that people in my life have been saying I needed to ditch, once and for all, was my father's influence.  The theory was that by moving away from Gooding Street to the high-rise I would embark upon a new life, create a new beginning, and no longer be controlled by my father. 

I think that was overly optimistic.  The influence is still there and governs much of what I do and think.  I try to explain to people that over 30 years of control is hard to break quickly, and that it's possible I'll never be completely free.  At the very least, the habits that I learned while under that control are hard to break--lying, hiding, concealment, subterfuge, patient endurance, avoidance, isolation, fear. 

One of the hardest habits to break is the concealment.  Although I had been hearing voices since my early 20s, it wasn't until May 2010 that I admitted it to my doctors. And my friends.  Although I have been a hoarder for as long as I can remember, I didn't admit it until recently.   Although in some ways I am incredibly open about my life and thoughts, I am still reluctant to admit when I am not feeling well.  I still wear a mask of positivity, denying that something may be wrong.  My therapist and my psychiatrist have learned that they need to probe deeper, because I am not always willing to admit that something is wrong.

Why am I dwelling on this?  Mainly because I have had a tough time for the past few days. There's no particular reason why I have been having a tough time.  The voices have been especially loud, although they haven't been saying anything in particular that is worth noting.  It's just the way it is.  It's not something I talk about here at the Manor.  I'm not sure people would understand anyway.  I'm certain that people wonder how I got the apartment, or at least what kind of disability I have.  As someone who lives here said to me, the residents have a lot of time to wonder and talk about each other. 

In the meantime, in spite of how I feel I am intending to do what needs to be done.  The cooking.  The cleaning.  The errands.  And hope that the darkness dissipates sooner rather than later.4

later,
lin