Therapy Session

“What’s troubling you?”

“I…I had a panic attack earlier today. Because…of something really fucking stupid…” I bitterly laugh. “Of course, it’s fucking stupid. It’s me.”

“What was it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“No. You should ask. It’s the only way I’ll force myself to spit it out. It…” I inhale deeply through my nose. “Lipstick. Someone was wearing dark red lipstick, and it reminded me of…my-” I have to force myself to finish the sentence. “…my mother…”

I pause for a moment that seems to stretch forever. The pressure of further elaboration weighs on my shoulders. I look at Annabel, trying to gauge her reaction. Her face is unreadable to me as she jots some things down in her red notebook.

“You’ve mentioned her before once or twice. I take it from the way you speak about her, you two don’t exactly get along?”

So much in my chest wants to get out and my throat desperately tries to allow it to do so. The pressure builds until my mouth takes the silence as an invitation to start spilling my childhood to this woman.

“She’s…mean. Jej, that sounds really childish. No, I- I mean she’s…abusive. Verbally, not physically. Never had to be, I guess. She just complained a lot when I was a kid…about me…behind my back. Said I deserved every bad thing I got because, well, bad things happen to bad people. So, I guess I’m just evil incarnate in her eyes.” I slump back in my chair. The older I got, the bolder I became in trying to stand up for myself, and we had more and more arguments. Before she had arguments with me, she had arguments with mi papá. My brothers and I would always hide on the upper floor and I’d try to play music to drown out the noise. It never really worked, but I think it was a good attempt. I look at Annabel when I hear her book quietly close. I tiredly half-joke with a bitter scoff, “Mommy issues, right?”

“…I understand that your parents are now divorced. Do you mind if I ask how you think your relationship issues with your mother affected your life afterwards?”

I accidentally let out a sharp laugh as I sit up and face her properly. “Oh, gladly! Let me complain about my life for however long we’ve got left. So, among other things, I am a lesbian. And my relationship with my mother twisted and warped my perception of other women very deeply. I clung to the first woman who returned my feelings, which was horrible for both of us on account of me being a clingy nightmare and her being…physically abusive. Which, y’know, did not help my perception of women. At all. I became afraid of the thing that I wanted most. And I’m pretty sure my internal need and hunger for validation from other women led to me spending the entirety of the time that I was deployed to finding it…by being a hoe, obviously.”

“Sex?”

“Sex with as many women as I could seduce before running to the next ones without ever looking back!”

“Ah.” She nods understandingly. “Sleeping around to gain temporary satisfaction, then leaving as soon as things began to get serious because you believed you weren’t worth their long-term affection and investment. Is that right?”

I stare at her, half-grinning. “…Holy shit, you actually put it into words. Plus, being in the military worked as a good excuse. Which led to my addiction issues with alcohol later down the line b- but that’s a different beast for another day! Back to my mother who…” I sniffle slightly, my struggling smile of fright breaking down and falling. “W- Who ridiculed me. Made me feel guilty for doing things I wanted to do. Most often, she’d talk behind my back but the words always found their way to me. In her eyes, I was a reckless stupid lying little thief. A stain on the family image. I wasn’t just a disappointment; I was somehow worse.” I sigh. “And I just soaked up the shame like a sponge. Sucked the life out of me.” I feel Muerte shift slightly as he leans into my leg, lying calmly at my feet, glancing up at me with big warm brown eyes. I absent-mindedly scratch him behind the ears. He tries to nuzzle my hand. “Because that’s the thing about shame, right? It doesn’t just make you feel bad about yourself, it makes you feel bad about everything you touch as well.” I move my hand to cup and gently squish Muerte’s furry face. “It swallows your willpower and eats away at your confidence until you stop trying. You’re not good enough, and you never will be.” My hand falls away. “So, why bother? You’re just a weirdo freak who doesn’t want to, doesn’t deserve to, and probably can’t get better.” 

A brief but heavy pause settles in the air before I swallow her echoed words and continue. I feel Muerte’s breath on my leg when he softly whines. I automatically go to pet him again.

“She’d never talk that way about Miguel or Adrien. At least, not before he came out to her as trans. They’d always receive praise and positive reinforcement. No wonder we fought. She set us up against each other. Then Adrien came out to her and immediately started receiving the exact same treatment as me. I tried to fight against it. Y’know, stick up for him, take the blame, help him be more comfortable in his own body. I cut his hair when Liliana refused to take him to the hairdresser. When he was still getting his allowance, I helped him buy a binder. I always used the right words when Liliana didn’t, and she never did.” Muerte sits up. “I was the one who comforted him at night when he was crying and asking why he was like this! I DID EVERYTHING FOR HIM! ALL BECAUSE SHE-!”

Muerte puts his head on my lap and softly whimpers, giving my hand a lick. Like he’s telling me that he understands and is there for me. I sigh. “She made me want to die. That’s why I got into the military in the first place. Because I was too much of a coward to do myself in. So, I thought at least if I died while serving, I’d be a martyr.” My stare falls to my boots, cheeks burning, heart pounding. “I’ve never told anyone that.” I don’t say anything for a little while, my throat constricting every time I try to take a breath. Gradually, I realise it’s because I’m trying not to cry.

“Why…” I start to rasp and whimper. “Why does it feel so bad to badmouth her? She was horrible to me, to my family, but…she’s still my mother.” I raise my head and look at Annabel, red-faced and teary-eyed. “And she was so kind to them when we were kids. I know she had me when she was dealing with a bunch of her own issues, but I don’t understand. Why didn’t I get her gentle calming voice, or one of her soft hugs, or a nice toy when I was crying instead of being told to shut up? Did- Did I not deserve it? I…”