Calling Home

I call my mom every Sunday night. It is pretty rare that we talk any other time. Sunday night just happens to work for both of us. Otherwise, it would be difficult to find another time where both of us are home and free. In college, I always enjoyed our conversations. I also enjoyed them when I was working at the amusement park and living with my aunt and uncle. At some point though, the phone call became an obligation, an undesirable chore, something that filled me with dread every Sunday night. I am not sure when it started but the feeling is not going away.

I feel like I have nothing to talk about with my mom anymore. I go to work everyday and then I come home and attempt to live. The highlight of my week is surviving. It is a big deal if I do not cut and I feel happy for real. It is not the most exciting life right now but I have to get credit for living.

I cannot tell my mom about my mental problems though. She would be shocked if she learned that I was a cutter. She would become paranoid if she learned that I frequently think about suicide. She would not understand and now that I am an adult, it is not her business. Sometimes, I feel like I am living a lie but at the same time, not everyone in the world needs to know about my mental problems. I had a dream the other night where I was telling my students about my OCD. That is definitely not necessary. And I do not feel that my mom needs to know because there are a lot of people in the world that have OCD. And somehow, I will get through this on my own.


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