I am still so alone. And that is unlikely to ever change.
D is gone forever. I have no parents, no siblings, no friends, no relatives, no pets, nobody, nothing.
I have sinned greatly and I had no way of stopping it.
I don't know if I will ever find anyone ever again.
I tried committing suicide last year but it was just pointless. It hurt a lot and I felt bad.
The crushing boredom is so intense and pervading.
And the loneliness, oh my god.
And the worst part is how much worse things could be and could get.
I think being sexually abused by both parents and an uncle and a great-uncle all just eats at you and rots your brain.
I don't know. I am so tired and I have no one to speak to. And even if I did, there would be so much to say. I would overwhelm them.
I am so tired. And the loneliness is so exhausting. I don't know what to do about this sexual abuse.
I don't know what to do about this town. I don't know what to do about the hostility and the racism here. I just don't know.
I am fucking exhausted. I just don't know what to do.
This is agonizing. I am so fucking exhausted and fed up and angry.
From last year:
Yesterday I got a haircut. And the guy asked me if anybody had ever told me that I look like Sophia Loren.
When I left that place and then later came home, I realized that I needed to hear that. I needed to get some external feedback that I am a beautiful, elegant, sophisticated woman and that I am no small being to be trifled with and that I deserve to be treated well and with dignity.
I wish I did not beat myself up for 'complaining' so much about my parents. I wish I didn't pressure myself so much to 'move on' and to 'get over it'. I wish I didn't constantly put myself in the eyes and ears of some invisible, skeptical audience member looking at me, reading my constant, incessant anger at my parents and rolling her eyes.
I wish I did not do that. I wish I felt stronger in myself, stronger in my anger. I wish I was more certain of it. I wish I knew it. I wish I felt it. I wish I heard what it has to say. I wish I heard more clearly what I have to say.
I wish I did not feel so much shame that I blame my parents so much. I wish I did not fear society's rejection of me for feeling so much burning anger.
I wish I did not feel so much intense internal pressure to move on.
I wish I did not believe and take in what pop culture and pop psychology and psychobabble tells us.
I wish I had more confidence in where I stand and how I feel. I wish I recognized the benefits of doing things my way. I wish I understood the positive aspects of feeling things the way I feel them.
I think I struggle all the time with figuring out what is real, what is true, what is actually happening.
I think I worry constantly, all the time that I'm doing something wrong.
I think that that self doubt can be helpful some times and devastating at others.
I think the real question here is...what is the purpose of this journal?
Is it to impress others? Is it to impress me? Do I have to perform here? Must I convince others of what a wonderful being I am?
Or am I using this space to vent? To express how I think and feel?
I am scared that all this amounts to is a big, fat pile of mediocrity.
And so what if it is?
I was always taught that I had to excel. I had to be the best. And I had to be wonderful. I had to be brilliant, insightful, wise, witty, deep, charming, fantastic. I had to perform.
Because people hate anger and because people hate prolonged anger and because people want to see others Make Progress and Move On, they will probably hate that I am Still Angry and more importantly that I am Still Angry -After All These Years.
Somehow, After All These Years, I am supposed to Stop Complaining and Move On.
And I want to do so badly. I want to move on and stop complaining and tell people 'look, look, I did it! I moved on. I'm happy now. I have decided to commit myself to this and this future direction. Look. Look!' I'm an achiever at last.
I'm not unhappy any more! Look at me. I'm not pathetic at all any more! I have decided to move on.
But the premise of these beliefs is so dumb. This entire ideology of moving on and being happy presumes....
I am so bored. So bored I could die. I think it's very possible that i get into a lot of bad situations and deal with a lot of bad people simply because I'm so bored.
I learned to feel bored and helplessly bored from all the rejection I experienced as a very young toddler. I live with boredom on a daily basis and I feel helpless in its face. There is nothing that I feel that I can do or that I should do. i feel like I should just sit there and lern to endure the boredom.
My early childhood experiences were a template of what I would feel and experience over the next twenty years with my parents. That early shame that came from the humiliation of being rejected and unwanted over and over again, every day, set my expectations in place for what society and life would offer me.
I was rejected by almost everyone I knew: my parents, some neighbors (I'm guessing because my parents shunted me off to them), relatives. The only way to escape rejection was to perform. To be as cute and charming and cheery as can be. There was no other way out. This sets me up to be a pleaser. And to open myself to be exploited.
The rejection also keeps me extremely bored because of the total lack of human engagement and interaction. And so I go into a fantasy world and I escape into books and movies and music. Anything external where I can lose myself in an alternate inner dimension where I can actually interact with things and think about them. But on the outside, I'm frozen.
I'm really sick of being rejected like this. Over and over again. I'm sick of it. I'm tired of putting things and myself out there and hoping that someone will take notice and be my fairy godmother. My parents had this identical attitude. It was so fucking stupid.
They really were the ultimate stage parents. Greedy pigs. The entity the put out there the most in hopes of earning love and attention was of course ME.
I was supposed to go out there and be cute and charming and adorable and angelic and wonderful and buy them love and attention and wonderment. 'Oh what a WONDERFUL child you have', people would say to my parents who would then unctuously and piously accept the praise with all due modesty and gratitude for the praiser's wisdom and superior judgment.
My whole life is a performance. Who am I? What do I want? What do I really do? What would my brain do without all this shitty training?
I gotta find that out.
P.S I find the thought of my parents as greedy and avaricious and grasping to be oddly comforting. Maybe because it's the truth. And it explains a lot of how they treated me. As the angel child with a name given by Sai baba, I was going to buy them riches and promotions and success and love and attention and kindness from others, everything with the sheer force of my wondrous childlike innocence and prayer and obeisance to God. I was supposed to please EVERYBODY including God just so my mother and father felt more financially and socialy secure.
This is what exploitation looks like.
I never once had a normal easy conversation with my mother. Never. I have never ever talked to her and have her respond to me and have this sort of interaction be sustained for longer than maybe a minute. Even when she was being "nice" to me.
My parents, (my mother who led my father) believed that I was somewhat of an angel here on earth. A semi-divine magical being. And angels never got angry or irritated or bored or sad. So it was completely wrong for me to feel bad. Ever. Sai baba had named me. And so I had a direct line to him and all of HEaven. And whatever I said would come true. And whatever I prayed for would happen.
My parents never wanted me to have ownership over any space. So now as an adult, I feel extremely guilty every time I want to clean something up. I feel like a bad person when I don't clean up my living space. And when I do, I feel guilty again. But somehow In a deeper, more crippling way. It's like I should not be asserting my ownership and pride over my living space. Somehow ownership is tied with arrogance and entitlement in my parents, especially my mother's, world.
It's been a little more than a week since I tried the Bach remedies. It has been quite a rollercoaster of emotions.
Today I thought I had finally found a combo that worked for me when I realized that I was doing something I hadn't done in a long, long time. I was blaming myself for feeling bad. I was angry at myself for feeling bad earlier. I was openly contemptuous of myself for having cried on Friday while listening to 'Blackbird'.
Man how stupid was hthat I wondered. So emotional and heavy and overly melodramatic.
I think it ties in with my overall self doubt and the way I have approached this process with the Bach remedies. Every time something hasn't worked, I have blamed myself with so much contempt. I have been so patroniznig and condescending to myself, to my left hand (every time I take the Pine remedy I feel like using my left hand. But it diminishes with Scleranthus. So right now I'm feeling very uncomfortable. I want to use my left hand and I yearn for the freedom that the Pine afforded me to be able to do that and reconnect with what feels like a lost part of myself. But just saying that to myself makes me aware of an angry voice that sounds like my bitchy mother rolling her eyes at me and mockingly repeating the words 'reconnecting with a lost part of myself". And then she and m y father would have mocked and mimicked me for half an hour.)
It seems to me that I have always had this struggle. This struggle to define for myelf who I am and what is actually going on in the world around me and what I need. And then there is this gigantic wellspring of contempt that I have for myself. I really genuinely see myself as worthy of contempt for feeling really bad on Friday.
There is something about the relief of feeling good for a change that makes me blame myself. Something about it makes me feel like a good little girl.
Oh god this connects to a memory I have of being a little girl and being profoundly unhappy as my parents and me were walking up a hill on a street. I was so tired and sad and unhappy. I felt separate from them and unwanted. I pulled back from them and suppressed tears. Usually I walked in the middle of them and held both their hands. I always wanted to be in the middle. because otherwise they would get caught up in each other and they would completely ignore me. I think they often preferred it when I wasnt around.
So when I pulled their arms back towards me, and they acted like I was being difficult and bratty and high strung, it resonates with me to this day.
I blame myself when I get unhappy. I treat myself like I'm just being difficult.
I bully myself so much. I am my own worst bully. The way I respond to myself as I remember this heart-breaking memory is callous and sadistic. I see nothing wrong with being indifferent to the suffering a frightened exhausted little girl who felt unwanted and unloved by her own parents and who just needed a little rest and maybe some water and a little food and a hug from her parents.
Why does it seem unthinkable for me to want such things? Why does it seem unthinkable for me to be ENTITLED to these things? Why is it wrong for me to NEED these things?
I get so alarmed when I get unhappy. Like I'm losing control and throwing some sort of giant tantrum.
I am so afraid of my vulnerability.
I was watching Blackbird as performed by Kurt on Glee. And I watched his buddy Blaine look at Kurt's tearful face with shiny tears all over his red cheeks as Kurt sang the song in memoriam of his dead pet bird.
And Blaine found himself get strongly attracted to Kurt. Instead of laughing at Kurt or mocking him, Blaine actually found Kurt's grief kind of hot and sexy. Because Kurt cared so much for his bird and Kurt really loved his bird. Kurt has a tender and loving and kind and gentle heart. And Blaine saw that and found such sweetness and kindness to be wonderfully sexy.
You could even see the respect in Blaine's face for Kurt's tears. (Darren Criss is a wonderful actor)
I wish I had that kind of respect for myself.
Ok now I'm crying too. Thank god. I don't ever lose perspective and condemn my grief as wrong or bad.
I have been pathologized SO much. My parents pathologized every single bad mood I had. My father would call them 'black moods'. I see children throw screaming, ranging tantrums and I wonder what was so bad about my own so-called black moods. My parents both believed that something was profoundly wrong and messed up with me if I so much as feared going to school.
My aunt was diagnosed with bipolar disorder or manic depression as they called it back then about a year or two before I was born. I bet that played a role in my father being a complete asshole to me. He was a distant and abandoning man. But I absolutely worshipped him at the time (well kind of, there were big caveats) because when he was around, he put on a Big Show and gave me tons of attention. Well again, compared to what my mother was giving me. My mother barely ever made eye contact with me and she routinely broke off sentences in the middle while talking to me and she would look away and stare away from me. Compared to her, my father was a king.
But then, the unspoken contract was that he would reject me as soon as I showed the slightest hint of not going along with his agenda. If I ever presented just the slightest hint of crabbiness, unhappiness, anything at all contrary, anything that made him feel like his grand plans were being interfered with, he would lose it.
Looking back, everyhting my mother said to me in those years (calling me "high-strung" was one of her perennial favorites- I heard that word so much it became like a sort of constant ambient presence) was some bitchy rejection of just about any feeling I had that she deemed inconvenient for her.
My mother had a HUGE loathing of being inconvenienced even in the slightest. My father had a HUGE terror of any woman who seemed difficult.
I don't want to play that game and I don't want to follow their agenda.
I want to learn to respect how I feel. I want to learn to stop pathologizing my feelings. If I'm feeling pretty bad, then that's it. I don't want to criticize it as an undesirable way to be. I f I feel good then I want to experience it and not criticize myself for having felt bad earlier.
I don't want to play my parents' and society's shitty little game of comparing happy states and sad states and make them into good states and bad states and label and compare and praise one and deride the other.
Current Music: Blackbird, Glee and Beatles version
|» Super Trouper|
I feel so very guilty about abandoning my parents. I feel like a really bad person.
I suppose my feelings about them are really complex.
What do I do about all the good memories that I have? Where do they go? What happens to them?
How good are they?
What about those times feels so good? What was so good about them?
Was I truly happy? or was I feeling manic and euphoric?
I think the big problem with being "loved" by someone who's abusive and cruel and vindictive and creepy and crazy is that you are always expected to be grateful for the good times without ever questioning how "good" those times really were.
Society, ie adult men and women, is always pressuring women and children to be grateful for any and all love they receive no matter how foul and fucked up that love is.
"He beat me up, he treated me bad, he called me names"
But he loved you.
Society excuses mothers so long as society never sees what the mother is doing to her child. In other words, if a woman is monster to her child publicly, there's big trouble for her. If the mother is a monster in private, then the child is at fault.
She loves you. She just made some bad mistakes. Happens to all of us. This is your mother we're talking about.
It's hard for me to think about the good times that I may have had with my mother or father without feeling an immense, huge, almost unbearable societal and cultural burden of guilt to excuse everything and condone it all and conclude that they were indeed good people.
And I think that's what they wanted when they were nice to me. All those "happy" moments, those "loving" moments. I can't think about those moments without feeling like the world would see me as an unmitigated asshole if I acknowledged that sometimes, -well actually 'occasionally' is a better word- I felt like my parents loved me a lot.
I really wish society and cultures across the world did not pressure children to be profoundly grateful for whatever meager love they got from the adult caregivers around them. It makes it very hard to see things in their proper context and to acknowledge the truth and to understand what happened and where things came from.
You know I think the truth is this: I may have had some 'good' moments with my parents every once in a while. But then again, the vast majority of the time that my parents were having a good time, I wasn't. I was terrified and miserable and depressed and worried as hell. And I had to conceal it all. Because otherwise my parents would call me 'moody', 'high-strung' and 'hypersensitive'.
The times when I was not terrified, I wasn't HAPPY. I was simply RELIEVED that no one was getting beaten, whether my mother or my father or me.
So it wasn't so much about the PRESENCE of a GOOD thing as much as it was about the ABSENCE of a BAD thing.
Then there were times when I wasn't relieved and I was anxious though not completely secretly terrified. Those times, I was feeling a sort of euphoric mania. And my parents felt it too. It came after the relief. Everyone was relieved that bad shit was not happening and the relief would dissolve and channel gradually into mania. That was tough actually. Unpleasant but still not as bad as the bad shit with the anger and the violence and the screaming fits and the screeching and the name-calling and the raw rage and the profound endless vulnerability.
So the times that I actually felt LOVED was actually quite rare. But those times feel so big in my head right now. So big. Why, of course I was love, I want to exclaim. I was loved ALL THE TIME. Sure there were bad times here and there. But it was so fantastic overall. It was great.
What is it that makes me exaggerate the good times? What is it that makes it so hard for me to see it tin the proper context and to the right extent?
Why do I feel so happy and downright positive about the whole thing? What's going on here?
I do feel a sense of closure and resolution about my life and my childhood though.
There it is. I was loved. So no more doubts.
Also I feel like I must be a good person. I was loved so that means I was a good person. I have my parents' seal of approval. I can relax now. Finally. I am not a bad person.
I hate this. I really hate how all this self-doubt leaves me feeling cut off at the knees.
I think the feeling that leaves me the most powerless and vulnerable and frightened and upset and utterly helpless is feeling like I'm making a huge mistake.
And when I feel anger at my parents and when I hold them accountable for their actions and when I want justice and I want to uphold the truth and keep in mind what I experienced and what I went through, I feel like I'm making a huge mistake.
I feel like I'm not seeing things correctly.
When I pretend that it was all good times and my parents 'loved' me and somehow I feel like their 'love' is more important than the torrents of abuse-verbal, physical, emotional, sexual- I feel like all my anger towards them, all my memories of their anger and their hatred, all of it is a huge mistake on my part.
It feels like submitting, almost sexually, to a more powerful force. Like feeling like opposition is pointless. It's like the wind getting knocked right out of me. Like the truth doesn't matter. All that matters is that I'm making a huge mistake. And I need to submit in atonement to my master and mistress.
And I think that's what my parents intended with these good times.
They were part of an agenda. They were designed to convince me to shut the fuck up and take the abuse.
They were part of my parents' manipulative tactics to convince me and to convince themselves that they were good people and my anger was part of some horrible misunderstanding that had nothing to with their good character.
I need to learn to see it all: the good, the bad, the horrific, the nasty, the creepy, the loathsome, the euphoric, the crazy, the miserable.
It's like when you look at an abstract painting that is colored in a mosaic of black, brown, grey, murky beige and dull dark blue, and it has a few spots of bright yellow on it. The yellow is what shines forth at you the loudest. Because the rest of it is so depressing and so, well, dull.
Well, this ain't so great, you say. But I like the yellow. That's some good stuff right there. I might even buy this painting. I don't like everything else. But I like the yellow. That's some good stuff. It makes up for the rest of it. It makes up for everything else on the painting. It makes up for all of it.
And I think that's what makes this so bothersome: the idea that somehow a little bit of love here and there, some occasional splatters of yellow, make up for all the other devastating horror and misery.
That's what it is, right there, that makes me feel so bad and cuts me off at the knees.
That a little bit of occasional 'love' makes up for all the pain.
I think I find it so painful because it's so false.
It goes to the heart of what is an abusive relationship.
And what is at the heart of parental love.
How much love makes up for how much pain.
Ugh, i'm tired and fed up.
|» The Power Of Reclaiming Narrative Or The Deceptively Short And Simple Way To Recovery From Abuse|
When people fuck with you through no fault of your own, they make up a narrative. It always goes along these lines whether you're a kid getting raped by a priest or your mother (yes, shocker, I know but it happens all too often, I am one of those former kids) or a Jew getting beaten by Nazis or a woman from what is now called Cameroon getting raped by some monster in his Georgia plantation house or whether you're a woman getting beaten up by her boyfriend: You are bad and you deserve the suffering because of how bad you are.
You're lazy, they tell you. You're ugly and you're stupid. You're crazy, they say. You make no damn sense. What the hell's wrong with you? Why don't you just shape up and shut up, you whiner?
The Native Americans probably heard a lot of shit like this on the trail of tears. Stupid savages. With their slutty women. And their dirty kids.
If you had an abusive parent, you heard shit like this All. The Time.
And that became your narrative. That became the story of who you were, are and will be forever.
Tell your own story. And wait and watch for the patterns to emerge:
When I was x years old, my mother slapped my face. Then she shoved her fingers between my legs when she was giving me a bath. My father always came home around my bedtime even though he worked at a small public sector government-run bank where most of his friends had little work to do and had plenty of leisure time unlike him. And then he and my mother would get into huge violent screaming fights. Then my father would get angry at me and beat me up.
Compare and contrast with:
I am really ugly and stupid. My mother can't help hating my ugly and stupid face so she slaps me a lot. Then because I am a slut, she punishes me to make sure I don't do anything slutty again. Then my hardworking father who is very dedicated to his job just so that he can put food on the table comes home after a long, exhausting day. I don't deserve such a wonderful father. Mom and him get into an argument which they often call a "discussion" sometimes but it's okay because they love each other and it's all my fault really. If I got better grades at school, none of this would ever happen. And then sometimes my father gets so tired of being lazy and stupid and ugly that he punishes me for my own good. I am now a better person for this.
Tell your own story. Pull your own strings. Know and understand what happened to you and who did it. Hold them accountable. This is the way to abuse recovery.
|» You know that Maroon 5 song called Misery?|
Sometimes I just feel so fucking alone and tired. I just wish I could apologize to all my dead friends. The forgotten ones. The ones who killed themselves. The ones who no one remembers any more. I wonder who will remember me when I die. I wonder how they will remember me. I wonder if I will be missed. |
32 years on the surface of this small planet and only D will remember me. Nobody else saw me, my mother wasn't very happy to see me come, and just one person will be unhappy to see me go. That would be my dear D.
I just wish I could see my dead friends one last time. One more time. So I could apologize to them for how I treated them. I don't know where they are. i hope they're okay wherever they are. I wonder if they know that I think about them all the time. Especially one of them. I wonder if they know. I wonder if they know how sorry I am. I wonder if they are out there somewhere seeing me in all my endless misery and pain and if they realize that I mistreated them because I was so messed up.
I don't want their forgiveness. I just really, really, really want them to know that I know that they did not do anything wrong and that I am deeply, deeply sorry for how I treated them.
So, I really wish there was an afterlife and there was some way they could hear me. And there would be an end to all this.... sadness and this constant regret and my wrongdoing.
Okay then, I guess I;ll o to bed. I have another day of PTSD to deal with tomorrow. And I shall now think positive, count my blessings, smile and get over everything.
|» I Learned Some More Stuff|
I went to a party filled with a lot of Latino people who mostly spoke Spanish. They were mostly non-participants in mainstream (white) AMerican culture. They didn't watch much American sports or TV. They weren't into Hollywood movies or gossip. They weren't interested in the latest fashion trends in America. they were out of all that.
And they were all doing just fine.
They were all middle-class. They were raising their kids. They got along with their spouses. They had cars and homes. They were okay.
My father was a huge one for enthusiastically immersing oneself in whatever new culture I found myself in. He would push me to rid myself of my old identity and take on all the characteristics of the new one. Today I realized that I didn't have to do that at all. I could just be myself in a new setting and it would be okay.
I suspect that my father worked so hard to change his identity and mine because he was afraid of any form of criticism, subtle or overt from anyone. Because he was so profoundly insecure about himself and who he was. I suspect he could never conceive of thinking that he was okay and if anyone gave him a hard time for not knowing some characteristic about a new place, it was their fault and not his. It never occurred to him that he could label that person as a dick and move on.
I also realized today and over the weekend that my mother is not a normal person with some abnormalities.
I realize that she is a nut, a crazy fucking nut with a few kind of normal attributes.
My friend was telling me about someone she knows that has schizophrenia. O boy. She described a lot of uncontrolled rage and feelings of persecution and a general contempt for others that the schizophrenic woman would express openly and loudly and randomly. Yup, there was my mother.
And I realize now that my father is a nut, a crazy fucking nut himself. And just like my mother, he too has a few kind-of-normal attributes.
One of the features of a third world country is that there is no such thing as work culture the way there is in developed countries.
In third world countries, you can be a quite a nut and work your way pretty high up in your organization as long as you're mostly interacting with people from a similarly high socioeconomic and cultural background. In my father's generation, when India was still a very isolated and closed off nation from all outside influences, there were quite a lot of rageoholic and mentally unstable bosses who made it pretty high up. They were high-caste, socially conservative men from 'good families'.
I also realized that one of my biggest problems is the extent to which I dissociate and get really anxious in situations where I'm getting some degree of scrutiny from others. Like when talking to store clerks or waitstaff or at a workplace where I feel a lot of pressure to pass for normal.
I feel a HUGE amount of pressure to make friends. Because my mother would keep telling me that I was weird and abnormal for not having friends. Although my mother had no friends.
And I couldnt keep any friends I made because she and her useless fucking husband kept moving every time I finally got to know people enough to start opening up to them.
So I get really tense in a lot of situations like parties where I don't know anyone or in workplace situations because I believe that I should be making friends left and right.
I realized that I live and I experience my consciousness and my identity as a minute to minute to minute thing. Not as an overall general thing.
This is because this is how my parents lived and this is how they taught me to live and also their constant abuse and cruelty forced me to live like this.
It's hard for me to think about what I feel overall about a person or a place or a period of time. Anything that's not very temporary.
I get so confused. And it all depends on when someone asks me. If you ask me about D today when I'm getting along with him, i think he's a pretty nice guy.
If someone asked me two days ago, I would have said that I wanted to separate from him.
But D and I did have a couple of big fights over the weekend where I got really angry at him and I let him have it and he did listen to me very quietly and respectfully.
So I guess I have some hope for our marriage.
Actually I think I don't allow in my feelings of discontent. because they scare me so damn much.
When I feel discontented and upset with something, I immediately experience feelings of isolation and abandonment and so i don't pay attention to just how unhappy I feel.
I learned one final thing.
I learned that being friends with someone is supposed to be in the words of Dr.P : "easy". You're not supposed to work your ass off at trying to be someone's friend.
I have never experienced an easy relationship.
I hope to remember my friend R, a nice woman from Europe. She seemed pretty angry that I was late to a lunch hangout at her home. I thought the show up time was pretty informal. I thought she was angry at me when I saw her again yesterday and I was all ready to be angry at her. She wasn't angry at all. She had completely forgotten that I was late.
I wasn't able to explain to her properly why I was late because I got scared when i saw how irritated she seemed and so I froze.
Man. Shit is hard.
The only way out of this for now is for me to learn to not worry so much about my mistakes. I have to somehow figure out a way to not go from being a little upset at someone else's anger at me to feeling like they're burning with resentment towards me to feeling like I'm now a pariah.
Ohhhh, I go into all of this other stuff because that's the way my parent's got angry at me. It was never a slight amount of irritation that passed quickly. There was rage and smoldering resentment and contempt and rejection and their own feelings of fear and abandonment because they catastrophized my small error.
And 90% of the time, there was no error at all.
God, I'm so fed up. I am so tired.
I have to stop now. i'm just so fed up.
My parents are so crazy, so fucked up, so horrifically cruel, so nasty and so disgusting.
|» I have learned many things.|
1. I have won the war against my parents. But I don't fully realize it yet.
2. I am still playing by their rules and experiencing my identity and living my life on their terms, not mine. This gives them a lot of power. And more importantly, it prevents me from accessing my own inner wisdom of who I am and what I want to do.
3. I have shut myself off from my own feelings because I find it very scary to experience many of my old emotions like rage and pain and fear. Experiencing old emotions doesn't have to be a reason to shut myself off from all emotions. I can choose which emotions I wish to act on. But it's very good and very positive for me to let all my emotions in.
4. Today I realized something tremendously painful and sad. I watched John Sayles' movie Baby It's You. At the end of the movie, I realized that the guy and the girl weren't going to get back together. That now they would part and gradually but inevitably become strangers to one another. Their high school romance ended and the girl was going to struggle to find herself in college and the guy was going to struggle to find a job and that would be that and their lives would fly apart. I have been somehow devastated and terrified and sad and insecure all day about this. I don't know why. I don't know why it upset me so much. And now it made me wonder if it had something to do with all the people that I lost.
I lost my best friend in high school, the high school run by that shitty controlling (is there any other kind?) cult, to suicide. I never really said goodbye to her. We parted on very bad terms. I feel terrible at the way I treated her. And then I got an email from another friend saying that this girl, this poor dear sweet girl, was dead. I don't want to go into the details of how she died. But you see. At the age of 20, when most people are just leaving childhood and adolescence, she left life. And I never knew what happened to her. What happened to her? Where did she go? What was her life like after high school? I don't know. I never found out. We drifted apart. And she died. And I couldn't do a damn thing to help her.
I lost another friend in college to suicide. I still don't know what happened to her. And why she did it. And where she is now. And if she is finally okay. Or if it doesn't matter at all because she is gone, all of her.
My family doctor committed suicide. I liked him. He was nice to me.
A distant uncle killed himself a few weeks after he visited me for the first time ever. Which turned out to be the last time I would ever see him.
My father had a close friend. That friend had a brother. He stayed with my parents and me when he was looking for a job. He was a nice enough guy. I liked him. I felt very bad for him that he was staying in my parents ugly, ratty, mold-infested, gross, cramped, tiny apartment. I felt ashamed to have another person witness the grossness that my parents and I inhabited. But he was nice. And quiet and friendly. But he killed himself a couple of years later.
Then there was an online friend of mine in the US who killed himself. But he murdered his wife before he did so.
All these people. Where did they go? What does it all mean? How can they just disappear like that?
My parents moved ALL the time and they forced me to move. What happened to all those friends I made and then had to leave behind forever, before I was ready.
All these kids that I struggled so hard, so feverishly to understand and with whom I struggled so hard to fit in, what happend to them?
Why was I torn from them just when i was starting to figure them out ?
Every single time.
And I wanted siblings. Desperately. I really craved a little brother or sister more than anything. And I never got a sibling. Even now, I keep hoping that someone will email me or call me out of the blue to tell me that they are my long lost brother or sister. I just want a family and have some loving, stable people in it.
I keep thinking of my parents and their absolute ghastly abominable unholy abortion of a marriage. There is no relationship there. They depended on each other. But I don't think they ever loved each other. And they certainly did not know what the hell to do with me once I came along. They didn't know whether to love me or hate me or destroy me or resent me or eliminate me or what. So they tried to do all of it all at once.
Sometimes I wonder: who the hell on this earth wants my love?
I feel over and over again that no one really has ever wanted my love. Sometimes I wish I had a child or a sibling or a pet. So that I could give it all my love. But then I wonder, what is that?
Is it the cry of the lonely heart of an abused child?
When I was a child, I used to stare at the sidewalks, at the grass off of the sidewalks because I desperately wanted a pet and I hoped that maybe some injured bird would be lying there and I could take it home and adopt it and nurse it back to health.
But there never was one.
And every pet I ever had, my mother would make it all disappear. I don't know. I don't know when.
I was never allowed to love anyone or anything. Sooner or later, they would disappear.
So when I look at that movie, a movie about love and connection and infatuation and drifting apart and become strangers and permanently ending a connection, it scares me, I guess.
Maybe it makes me think of the lack of real, lasting, meaningful connection in my own life.
It makes me feel very empty and lonely inside.
I realized that I will always be a stranger in this town. The South is not made for immigrants. It is not made for strangers. No one comes to The American South looking for connections and looking to find friends. No one comes to The American South to stop being a stranger.
And to be in a small Southern college town steeped in its own traditions and all glowy with smug self-congratulation, I can't see my future here.
I was never a part of this place. And I never will be.
Maybe it's time I understood that.
My whole life, I have worked SO hard to fit in. SO hard to get people to like me. SO hard to not be left out. To not be the kid who didn't get invited to birthday parties. To not be the kid who got ignored and left out. To not be the humiliated kid who no one talked to. To not be the loser, the bullied kid, the scapegoat, the pariah, the victim, the sad lonesome little schmuck that everyone pities and feels bad for but no one helps.
I have struggled my ENTIRE life to not be that person.
This Thanksgiving, somehow I ended up choosing not to go anywhere. Not to D's uncle's Thanksgiving on the West Coast or the other uncle's Thanksgiving up North. Not to one of the fancy restaurants that will be open, on account of my bad stomach.
Nothing at all.
I feel so shitty. The worst has finally happened. I am the loser. The sad, pathetic loser who has nobody. Just like my mother feared.
On the other hand, if I was to stop looking at myself through my mother's eyes and through the eyes of American society, and instead I look at my life through my eyes, I see something very good: I don't want to sacrifice my peace of mind and my body's health just for one day of feeling like I belong when I really don't. If I am going to go to all the trouble of traveling and planning and enduring familial dysfunction and weirdness and unpleasantness, I want to be welcomed with open arms and treated with dignity and respect and kindness. And most of all I want to be part of the family. Not as a guest or a tourist. I want to be understood and enjoyed and I want to be around people who are happy to see my face and who don't want to change me for something that they think is better and who aren't put off by the fact that I may be a little different from them.
I don't know how my life got here.
There was all these guys that I had huge crushes on. And girls that I was envious of and around whom I felt tremendously insecure. And I was ashamed all the time and everyday.
And now when I occasionally google old classmates, I realize that I was never really interested in any of them as people. It's weird. We occupied the same place and the same time and we were all the same age. But it was all so different.
I guess i look back at all the agonizing effort I put in and all the strain and worry I endured about whether I was going to fit in or not. And now I wonder, what was it all for?
Was it worth it?
Did anyone notice? Or care?
Did they appreciate it? Did they understand what I was doing?
Could they tell that I didn't really belong?
It was odd: I was simultaneously a total fucking misfit and a complete overachiever.
I don't know. i feel so ashamed and embarrassed about who I am. And I think that's the problem. I am so convinced that there's got to be another better way to be out there for me. Somewhere out there is a better me, a more enhanced me, someone who does everything better and lives a better life.
And the truth is, there isn't.
There's just one of me. The better me is not out there. The person I am now is all I've got. And there's no point in trying to change me into someone better. That person isn't out there. That person doesn't exist.
This stuff is hard. It's difficult to figure out. It's fucking never ending. But it does get better. Things have changed and they do get better.
I think I need better people in my life, more than anything. People who get me and people around whom I don't have to work so hard just to get some basic fucking courtesy.
I need more than what I have been getting so far. I need more than condescension or suspicion or a grudging lack of hostility or conditional courtesy, anything that involves all sorts of emotional gymnastics on my part. I'm getting too old for that shit.
I need to expect more from other people and accept their bad behavior if and when I get it and learn to move on.
Some relationships are worth fighting for. Most aren't.
I guess I've been trying to fight for a lot of relationships that simply aren't worth it.
I guess I've been fighting so hard for them because I've been the only one fighting for them. The other people simply weren't as interested. And I have been fighting so hard because I needed it more than they did. Because I have been so desperately alone and lonely and terrified and sad and in pain.
It's that awful deathly gloomy abandoned feeling I've been trying to avoid.
But my parents did that to me. They're the ones who consistently abandoned me.
Even my mother's latest email is all about her. She tells me she loves me. But what she feels isn't love. It's dependence. I think my mother never learned to tell the difference between love and dependence. That would take growing up. And my mother never really wanted to grow up.
Just like my father. Another person who thought needing someone and depending on them was the same as loving them.
I never ever got the slightest help from them. Assholes.
No wonder I feel so lost and ashamed and alone.
I can't rely on others to get me out of feeling that way any more. They just aren't worth the trouble. Their help comes with all these strings attached and they almost never deliver. Ever.
So what's the point?
I fight and fight and fight hoping for some glimmer, some little connection, some sense of rescue, some teeny weeny little incident that will show that thi time I'm not quite as alone and someone else understands and gets me.
I can't do that any more.
And that's another shit lesson my mother taught me. "you are all alone," she would say. "you have no one. how will you ever survive without anybody?"
Well I guess time flies, bitch. Time changes stuff. Time alters things. Women aren't quite so dependent on other people any more. In a world where I can marry the man I want and live in the place of my choosing, I don't quite need people doting on me and acting as permanent parent figures any more.