Today I got one of those messages from Gmail indicating my storage was nearing capacity. Why? Because I keep a large majority of emails. I was doing my usual procrastination dance of reading advice columns, when I remembered I’d sent a letter (unanswered) to a columnist some three years ago on September 16, 2020.
Dear Columnist,
In the last twelve months, I’ve become a student of advice columns. I think it’s how I cope with my never-ending divorce—twenty-four months and counting!
The last week, though, I’ve entered into a shame spiral that I can’t seem to escape. Normally I sugarcoat my life. Upper-middle-class upbringing. Seven Sisters, Ivy League. Jet setting. From the outside, life is brilliant.
What I’ve hidden? Narcissistic abusive alcoholic mom. Twenty-year marriage to the same kind of person-natch.
When I finally got up the courage to leave my marriage and cut off my mother for good, I spent far too much time managing the feelings of people who acted like I’d ruined the fantasy they had of my life. Took me a minute, but I got off that boat and turned inward. That leaves me trying to manage the untold damage forty-plus years of abuse have wrought. Trying to maintain a writing career that my mother and ex spent so much time trying to derail like it was their second job, and weekly therapy that felt like it was helping until now.
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