My Own Worst Enemy

 I have been my own worst enemy from the moment I was told she was gone.  I remember being driven to my knees with pain and horror.   My first conscious thought was, I shouldn’t have let her go.  In that split second, I had placed my neck willingly in the noose.  By the time my parents pulled into the empty lot near the site, I had already begun panicking… what my mom would say to me when she found out I had killed Cory? 

And yet, even as I stumbled over my words to tell her, “Mom, they covered her up!  They keep telling me she’s dead!”  I was plainly illustrating my denial of her death.  Words were important to me, and it seemed if I simply stated it another way – they keep telling me she’s dead- this horrible thing could simply be a lapse in judgment.  Perhaps, if someone who actually knew what they were doing checked her out, they would clearly see she was still alive.

I know now that my reaction was typical to those who witness trauma, and to anyone grieving the loss of a loved one.  The guilt I carry daily is staggering.  Walking around, and appearing to be normal around others is a full time job.  Being a mom, being a wife, being a good employee…those things just frankly seem impossible.  I can barely hold my head up.

 Every once and awhile, usually when I’m writing, I am able to look at my role in Cory’s death in a more logical light.  It doesn’t happen all that often, so I’ve decided to capture it on paper for later review…you know, for the next time I have one of those screaming in the car, plate slinging, punch-myself-in-the-leg-till-I-bruise sort of days.

So here it is: today at the coffeeshop,  I imagined what I would do if I were driving along  to pick up Jake from my mom and dad’s after work, and was pulled over by the police.  If they were to run my ID, and decide I was indeed their perp, I would demand to know what they thought I had done.  If they told me I was being arrested for vehicular manslaughter of a young woman, age 19, who had been killed crossing the street, what would my reaction be?  Well, I imagine, my first words would be, “You’ve got the wrong person.  I didn’t do that.”

  If my denial was not enough to prove my innocence, you can bet I would make the most of my one phone call.  I would be seeking help to clear my name.  I would be working desperately with my lawyer to build my case, to establish an alibi, to show I had no direct contact with the actual accident (hell, I wasn’t even there when it happened, hello!) and that I had certainly not conspired with anyone else to make this death occur.

Wouldn’t you do the same?  I think anyone in their right mind would.   So why in the world am I so willing and eager to take the blame just because the young lady in question was my daughter?  Is it logical?  Did I somehow transport myself in time to West Michigan, push the driver out of her seat, and take the wheel?  Of course not, that’s crazy, right?

Furthermore, I have pushed away every person who has tried to help me realize that my thinking on this subject has no basis in facts.  I have refused medication, therapy, and shut my ears to the words, “It’s not your fault.”

How much sense does that make?

It started when I went to the first two counselors I’ve seen on this little journey.  I left both sessions mad as hell, and thinking they were an absolute waste of my time.  “They did nothing to help me, not a solitary thing!” I told people.

What would have been a more accurate statement?

 “They didn’t give me what I wanted.”

 I was just as frustrated and angry as any small child denied the candy at the grocery checkout.  I am positive I walked out of those offices with my fists bunched up and my lower lip pooched out.  It would be comical if it weren’t such a nightmare.

See, when I saw those counselors, I wasn’t looking for help accepting what had happened or help to feel better.  In my illogical state of mind, I went in there, fully expecting one of the kind ladies would listen to my tear-filled rendition of July 5^th, hand me a tissue, and say, “Just a moment, Ms. Mansfield.  I think I have the solution to your problem.”  The counselor would walk out, returning a couple of moments later with Cory in tow- fully intact, smiling gently, and looking at me with concern.  “Hey, Mom, what are you doing here?”

That’s what I wanted from these people.  When they didn’t deliver, I wanted nothing more to do with them.  Useless.

Medication was the same.  I pushed away the meds for so long, not because I didn’t think they might help…I had seen the benefits of medication to Cory’s depression and suicidal thoughts.  No, I pushed the meds away because I didn’t want to feel better.  You see, if I felt better, I would go on, and going on without my Cory Girl was just not something I wanted to do.

I think  I may have kept my arms crossed across my chest for the better part of three months.  Just try to get me to change my mind on any of the above.   I fear my friend, Angie, my true therapist –who is on call 24/7 and doesn’t get paid a dime- was itching to choke me, wondering the whole time how such a tiny creature could be so damn bull-headed.

  It was weeks before I even tried to defend myself.  It’s a funny story, in a way.  I was in the shower, my thinking place.  I had been fighting off a burning urge to contact Bob, Cory's biological father,  and clue him in on just what he missed out on this time around.  I really wanted to share the pain.  It just wasn’t fair that he had left me holding the bag on every single thing that happened over the years… especially this.

 My only reservation in doing so is that I knew he would likely say something to make me feel worse.  I could not imagine him being kind or fair… I had refused to let him attend the funeral.  As I shampooed my hair, the conversation played out in my mind.

 I knew Bob in and out, like the back of my hand.  He would consider anything I said to be an attack (and in this case, he would be right).  When attacked, his only defense is to come back twice as hard, hammering his point home until the listener is just too exhausted to defend themselves any longer.  So I surprised myself (in this imaginary conversation) when some sense of self-preservation rose in my chest, and a hot burning, righteous anger took over.  How dare he?

I knew that once I had laid all the gruesome details out for his close examination and berated him for being three thousand miles away while his only child’s lifeblood seeped into the concrete,  he would say, “Yeah?  Well, it wasn’t my fault.  I wasn’t even there.  You’re her mother.  Why weren’t you watching her?”

He would cut straight to the heart of my underlying insecurity, as he always had…you are not good enough.  This had long been a theme, perhaps born in my formative years when I struggled with my body image, but mostly cultivated through his physical and verbal abuse in years gone by.  Every time he lost his temper, every time I found the courage to look for the door, the thought that I could have done something better- something to prevent his rage, prevent his displeasure, make him calm, make him happy would follow me, closer than my own shadow, pestering me until I turned right back around again… head down and ready to accept any and all of the blame.

Well, there was a difference from that young woman and this one.  This one had finally, after two decades, realized that she could not change anyone but herself.  And that she deserved better.  This man had a major mental illness that had gone untreated for decades.  Without significant treatment, he may never be able to sustain a healthy relationship with anyone.  It was sad, and it was true.

So, in the shower, I shifted my weight to one foot, cocked one bony hip, and just went for his jugular.  “Where was I?  Where was I?  I was cooking her dinner!  I was taking care of her!  Like I always have!  When have you ever bothered to cook her a meal?”

As I considered this, I began to make a mental list of all the things I did manage to do for Cory that day, the last day I saw her alive.  I’d only seen her for about two hours, but I was amazed at all we had shared during that short time, once I stopped to really think about it.   When I got out of the shower, I wrote it all down, a beautiful list that made me feel better than I had since it happened.  As I reread it, I realized I had likely done more for Cory in that brief period of time than Bob had done for her in her whole life.  What did I have to be ashamed of?

That was the very first time since the accident that I actually began to challenge my faulty thinking.  I never would’ve done it without Bob’s voice in my head.  Gee, thanks, babe.

I saw a third therapist a couple weeks ago, hopeful that she would have some techniques and strategies to help me manage the flashbacks, and begin to feel less guilty.  When she told me to think pleasant thoughts, and let time do the rest, I was out of there.  Lady, I can do better than that by myself.

So, I got out some index cards, and made myself some prompts.  I remember Cory’s first therapist using these to show Cory how cognitive behavioral therapy works.  In a nutshell, if you can change your thoughts, you change how you feel, which in turn changes your behaviors.

 The thing is, changing your thoughts is hard work.  Sorry, therapist #3, I can’t just “think pleasant thoughts” when I am seeing my daughter’s broken body on the road.  It’s a little more complicated than that.

So here goes my experiment:  keeping these cards handy, and referring to them often.  I will let you know how it goes.