i just came out of my last appt with my therapist (before i leave to france) and it was. A Lot. i cried a lot, it was like a cryfest tbh, and the gist of it is that i shouldnt let what my mum says and does shape who i am and how i think of myself. also i told him abt how she was during my childhood (emotionally abusive and manipulative) and he confirmed that it was, indeed, abuse and manipulation, and that he thinks my mum is ‘selfish, only thinks of herself and her needs, childish, uses me as a pawn in her games, no good’ (it was so funny i laughed thru the tears)
oh and also i told him how im. scared that im like her, the whole 'children grow up to be their parents’ thing, how i want to be a better mum than she was to me, etc etc and he said he thinks ill be a great mum bc usually children who are abused turn out to be the exact opposites of their parents. like when they go thru what i went thru and recognise that it was bad, theyll in turn try really hard to make their kids lives better
he said that most likely ill be involved in my kids lives, ill be loving, protective, kind, etc etc. and honestly? i cried
anyways im leaving next week and im excited to get away from all of this. and rly, im mostly really upset bc even tho shes horrible, ill miss my mum too? but ill miss my dad and stepmum more :^)
Groundhog hibernation gave rise to the popular American custom of Groundhog Day. Tradition dictates that if a groundhog sees its shadow that day, there will be six more weeks of winter. We are still cursing Phil and his cold, cold shadow…
They watch Seinfeld every week for months when she’s sick. He doesn’t especially like the show, and suspects that she doesn’t either, but it has hooked them in the way that bad movies encourage you to persevere until the end: because it just might get better. But for him, there is no end in sight.
That comforts him. If Seinfeld never ends, she is not allowed to die.
He told her that, once, when she was in the hospital: stick it out to the bitter end, Scully. And she had laughed. There’s nothing in the world quite like making Scully laugh in a hospital bed, he thinks.
Now she perches delicately on her couch, wearing a sweatshirt that he vaguely remembers lending her last year. Only the tips of her fingers are visible past the sleeves of the garment and he is struck by how small she is. He forgets, because she takes up so much space in his life.
He sits next to her, settles down with a hot bowl of popcorn. She pulls a blanket over her legs and jams her toes beneath his thigh. Contact with her burns, and he wonders if she feels it too. He glances over to check.
She seems unaffected. But right now, backlit by yellow lamplight, she is more beautiful than she has any right to be. She reminds him of a moth, pale and fluttery in her illness. Her lips part just slightly as she shivers.
She throws a smile his way, shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
He passes her the popcorn bowl that had been burning his thighs, just enough to sting but not as much as the touch of her toes.
She sighs, closes her eyes. She looks bruised, like a dropped peach. Has looked that way for a while.
“Better?” he asks.
She nods, and he envelops her freezing hand in his warm one.
“Cold hands, warm heart, right Scully?”
And she smiles, licking salt from the fingers of her other hand. “That’s what they say.”
After a while she pulls her hand away and he pretends not to notice. He has been pretending not to notice a lot lately: her nosebleeds, her thinness, the way she quiets suddenly when a headache comes on. Her little inhales of pain from across the basement are torture for both of them. That’s all there is now, silence and pain-hissing. He misses her, violently.
Seinfeld at least gives them sound. They sit, touching, and the canned laughter becomes their mutual enemy. It sets her teeth on edge but they make a joke of it, of the ridiculous things that go on in the episodes that don’t merit laughter. He thinks of the space between them and how many jokes they have made over the years, how often he can mention something that happened two years ago and have her in stitches over it again.
Not often, really. But one time he made her actually rip her stitches from laughing.
Their hands knock in the popcorn bowl. If they went on like this forever, he would be okay. Knocking hands every few minutes; knocking into each other for the rest of their lives.
Again, she sucks on the pad of her thumb. She would taste like salt and butter if he kissed her now.
He won’t, though. Maybe when Seinfeld finally ends. A kiss of victory, he thinks, and smiles.
“What?” she murmurs, nudging her toes further beneath his thigh.
With his arm draped on the back of the couch, his hand is close to her bent, blanket-enswathed knees. He covers one, cups her kneecap in his palm. “Nothing.”
She doesn’t brush him away, so he rubs his thumb across the threads of the blanket. She won’t die, he thinks. Not when Seinfeld is on and he can cover her whole knee with his hand.
She can’t die. She will live as long as Seinfield airs, and when it is over he will kiss her, and there will be no time in between for dying.
He glances over at her. The television’s glow illuminates her face and he squeezes her knee, removes his hand. She turns and a smile creeps over her face.
It’ll be okay. They’ll be okay. How could they not, when she’s smiling at him like that?
He finds himself smiling too, before turning back to the tv. Maybe Seinfeld isn’t even that bad.