February 2, 2010 (describing mom’s funeral)

Tuesday, February 2, 2010


One of the SAA members suggested becoming a black belt in martial arts, as a way to help overcome my fear of men.

Certainly I have tried this, before!

When I was 19, I enrolled in karate and pictured beating up my dad, each time I threw a punch. Later, when my ex-husband Matt and I enrolled in Jujutsu, I had the same emotional visual of kicking the shit out of my dad.

But I’m not entirely convinced that getting back into martial arts is right for me. I want to make sure I have good reasons, if I do enroll again.

Although sometimes I do fear violence from men, and although violence is sometimes a side-effect of uncontrolled anger, it is not necessarily violence that is my base fear. The ability to protect myself from a physical attack, although useful, is not what I need.

Rather, I desire the ability to protect myself from emotional and verbal abuse and attacks.

I fear anger—especially from men. I am afraid of confrontations and disagreements because I think it will make the other person angry.

Karate, jujutsu, and other martial arts may make me feel physically powerful, but the fear of upsetting other people will still be present, inside me. I want to find a way to become a black belt in a sort of “mental” martial arts, so I no longer fear emotions.

Maybe simply exercising my self-esteem and gaining strength in that area will help me to stick up for myself and what I believe is right and healthy for me.


The psychologist from yesterday said that suicide is like having a rat in the basement of my house, and I can’t see it, and I’m not sure where it is, but it’s a pest animal so I want it to be gone from the basement. I can’t seem to find it and get it out, so I come up with the grand idea of blowing up the entire house, to get that one little rat in the basement.

But if I blow up the whole house, then I no longer have a place to live! I could have just found other ways of dealing with that one problem of the rat, instead of destroying everything.

So it’s like suicide—I want to destroy my life, just to get rid of the problems of my childhood or addiction, etc, just because I don’t know how else to get rid of it. But there are other ways, and I’m doing those ways right now—therapy, meetings, outer circle activities, digging into my past and resolving issues, etc. Plus, just the visual of blowing up a house to kill a rat is very comical to me, and it makes me giggle! tee hee


Sophia says, “I really like the metaphor of the rat in the house. That makes so much sense!

You know, I happen to dislike and rarely use the words ‘sex addiction.’ Sometimes I do in a meeting just to speak the same language but to me it is inadequately and inaccurately named. I have talked about this in meetings.

Rather, in my humble opinion, what we are talking about are actions that became habits that became personality traits or standard operating procedures in our lives in our attempts to heal old wounds, relate to other people and try to deal with our self esteem and power issues.

It’s not about the sex or the porn or the compulsive relationships, etc, for anyone, as far as I’m concerned. When I say this, people tend to agree.

The program works no matter what you feel about it or choose to call it, I think, and if addiction is a handy catch phrase for people who don’t want to describe it more accurately, fine, and it’s working for them to do so, it’s their prerogative and it’s not worthy my time to go into it.

But you certainly don’t have to use those buzz words to work with me on the steps or in meetings. It’s your program and you set the parameters.”

New book: “The Princess Who Believed in Fairy Tales,” by Marcia Grad


Therapy assignments: Write about mom’s funeral. Ask mom’s older sister about her childhood. LOL yeah right.

Grrrrr. I know I’ll do it. I’ll do what it takes to heal. I’ll be uncomfortable and look at my past. But that doesn’t mean I’ll like it.

I can’t stand talking to family members or even thinking about them. I hate all of them so fucking much. I feel like every single person has hurt me in one way or another. It’s very painful to admit I am related to them and to bring up painful events, like how I was treated at my mom’s funeral.

But… whatever. I’ll do it. I know I need to do this… to heal and move the fuck on.

Man I am fucking pissed right now. I fucking hate my fucking bitch of a god-damn “mom”—sorry excuse for a cunt. She can fucking ROT IN HELL, BITCH FUCK YOU, PIECE OF CUNT SHIT. You’re not my mother. At all. Fucking bitch.

Ok nice to get that out.

Now… funeral.


[The death and funeral happened some time in 2003 or 2004.]

I was with Matt [ex-husband; we were engaged to be married when the death happened] when I got a phone call from my sister. She was very upset and wanted me to come to her house (my mom’s house in a nearby suburb) right away. She didn’t say why—just said to come. She was crying and her voice was shaky. I immediately left with Matt and drove to her house. A police officer woman was there with my dad. My dad and sister were both crying.

“Mom’s dead,” my sister sobbed.

It was surreal. Was it a joke? Were they serious? Do people really die?

No, yes, and yes people die.

After a few odd moments of that surreal feeling, I accepted this strange fact that my mom was now dead.

“Ok,” I said calmly, turning to the officer. “What do we do now?”

She said what the procedure was, and I remember wondering how this affected her, or what it was like to go to families’ homes and tell them that a member was now dead.

I didn’t really care about my mom being dead. I just wanted to protect my sister and make her feel better.

I remember my dad being pissed at the “kid” who drove the Jeep that hit my mom. He ran a stop sign and hit her on her motorcycle. I didn’t cry at all. I remained pretty rational, calm, and with a logical mind, that afternoon at my sister’s/mom’s house.


My dad, over the next few days, tried to pretend that we were a strong family with a solid foundation, who can support each other in times of crisis.

Reality was that we’ve been very dysfunctional and it was dangerous to show emotions. No one was trust-worthy. Lots of underlying issues. And of course, I had a deep hatred of my dad. I was infuriated that he would go around acting as if we’re a family. He and mom divorced years ago—why was he suddenly back in the picture? I wished he had died, too.

People cried at the funeral. I didn’t. I barely got teary-eyed when my grandparents started wailing loudly, but I pushed the feelings away. I hated my mom. I was glad she was dead, so I wouldn’t have to deal with her shit anymore.

People were contacted and told of the death. Flowers were sent. Legal stuff was started. My sister was angry that I was listed as the executor on my mom’s will. Eventually, I gave the responsibility legally to my sister, just so I wouldn’t have to put up with her being pissed at me. I just wanted out of the family. For good. I was so sick of their shit. I don’t even know what “their shit” is. I know I was sick of it, though.


My sister and her boyfriend had ended their 4-year relationship just a day or two before my mom’s death. I remember being there for her when she was sad. I lived at Matt’s parent’s house at this time.

After the funeral, my dad visited me at Matt’s house. Everyone except my dad could feel the tension in the air. I did not want him there, but he seemed so fucking oblivious to me and my wants or needs. He just did what he wanted. I think he even hugged me. I wished again for his death. I don’t remember what the conversation was about. It was short, though. Matt’s mom was nervous—she could feel the uneasiness in the air that I felt towards my dad. Everyone else could see it—why couldn’t he see it?

I feel angry that my dad doesn’t notice me. He didn’t notice me in the past, too, I guess. I feel like no one saw me for who I was. I wasn’t allowed to be myself. Unaccepted.


[Update: I rediscovered an old journal entry from August 28, 2004, where I talk about my mom’s funeral. I’d forgotten all about this journal! You can read it here.]


One thought on “February 2, 2010 (describing mom’s funeral)

  1. Pingback: February 4, 2010 | The Miracle Mud Bath of Life

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