Odd Little Truths

Being able to blame someone for your problems really doesn’t make a difference.

I ended up seeing a psychologist a year or so ago due to a reoccurrence of some bad anxiety problems. During one of my sessions, she managed to trace back through my past and find the initial root, or cause of my anxiety.

When I was 4 or 5 my grandparents took me away from my mother for about a year or so. It didn’t make sense at the time, and I nearly viewed it as being kidnapped, but years later, as an adult, I understand their actions.

They had been asked to do this by my mother, who signed over custody. They were simply keeping me until she could find a place to live (she had just been fired from her job with AT&T and evicted from her home).

The year, to a five year old, was traumatic. My grandmother was a mean and spiteful woman who caused many sleepless and tear-filled nights. I never really stopped hating her. Even when she was nice to me I was sure she had another agenda.

Years and years down the line and I still hated her. Then my therapist tells me my anxiety was caused by that woman. I’m okay with that. it even make sense.

Then, maybe 6 months ago, it came out to the family that my grandmother had dementia and had been forced into assisted living because my grandfather could no longer care for her on his own. My father and I had suspected the dementia for about a year or so, but we had not expected hearing of the violent episode that led to her being put in a home, or the near catatonic state we were told of after.

To us, the email reports basically described her as a vegetable, only occasionally did she seem to be aware or participating in her surroundings. It was surreal, and I had a hard time believing that the woman who put so much fear and hated into me as a child could be so reduced.

Then, only a couple of weeks ago, right after Christmas, I was told she had died.

I almost expected to feel received. Happy even. This woman who had made me feel so miserable so many times, who had insulted both of my parents on occasion, was finally gone. She couldn’t touch me ever again.

Instead I felt nothing.

Nothing changed. I still suffer from anxiety. So what if she was the cause, she’s dead and gone and I still have issues.

I still don’t like her, even if she is dead. Though I may pity her.

I thought finding the cause of this mess might change something, might make it different.

But it really hasn’t. Everything is still the same. And I’m just left wondering.


About lvadams

I grew up in Central Florida for most of my life. I was one of those strange kids who liked to catch lizards and snakes, and brought everything home from stray kittens to baby chickens and ducks. I started writing around the age of 11 and never really stopped. I now have a Bachelor's of Science degree from Auburn University and hope to get a job working with animals. Until then I keep on writing. :)
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