I basically raised myself. And I raised my mother, too.
Growing up, I had to make myself small, quiet. She didn’t want to be bothered by me unless we were binge eating fake-sugar treats until we were both sick. And I’d have to go to school still feeling sick the next day.
I did not have safety in my childhood home. I didn’t feel loved, valued or safe. I used escapism, fantasy and talking to my stuffed animals as a way to pretend that I wasn’t actually there.
My father didn’t like me, his wife didn’t either, they taught my half brothers to not like me, too. My teacher beat the fuck out of me and at home, I hid in my closet and did my best to stay out of my mom’s way. I was a burden, I wasn’t loved, I was told with actions that I was annoying, unwanted and in my mind I knew that it would be better if I was dead. I knew that at age 5. But somehow, I still had hope that life would get better. A voice told me to keep having hope.
The pain was overwhelming. My anxiety manifested physically, I rocked back and forth, I was always scared. I was always in survival mode and I had to trick myself into pretending I was okay. I was always telling myself that I was ok. I’d disassociate, numb out, go into daydreams.
My mom was always stressed from work, she slept all weekend, she wanted it quiet. I did my best to leave her alone but be available if she wanted to talk, watch her movies or binge. I tried to be as supportive as I could to her by keeping myself small, by having no problems, by pouring all my energy into her. And she would tell me constantly, “you are so strong”. Even in the back of the yearbook on my High School graduation parent dedication page, there it was in black and white, “She’s strong in her own, capable hands”, I was the strongest person she knew. She keeps telling me that even now. But I’m not strong. Not even a little. I endured, I survived… but I don’t feel strong, at all. I didn’t want to be strong, I had to be strong.
Nobody understands how hard it was. Nobody gets it. My entire childhood the theme was “just get through this”… so I white knuckled and did it.
Then my boobs came in and boys started talking to me. I liked that energy, that attention. Now I realize it was shallow and worthless, but at the time, male attention with kindness felt amazing.
So, I learned to pour my energy into boys, because they felt safe. Even knowing what they wanted. It felt safer with them than I did with my mom.
And I married a man just like my mother. And I raised him, too. He even told me I should replace his shitty mom and went on to describe what a wife should do… and it was what a MOTHER should do. And I became his emotional punching bag, I held him up, I was upbeat and always helpful and never pointed out his shame. I gave my body to him, I shut off my mind… I was a good wife. I did for him and he never reciprocated. And I did what I knew… I survived and told myself that “someday” things will be good. I had hope that I would be rewarded for my sacrifice someday…
That time never came. Only MORE pain, more hating myself, more feeling used, unloved and the drumbeat that I shouldn’t exist, I should have never been born returned. Another 23 years of the same shit. The same pain. What a waste.
Now that I’m alone and my entire body is trying to detox from the last 46 years of this hell, I have to remind myself…
Nobody can understand what I went through. Nobody understands this pain.
I wish someone could look at me in the eyes and say they get it. That they understand how shitty my life has been. I just want someone to understand and empathize with me. Most people don’t get it or they think I’m overreacting or I get a hand wavy “that sucks for you”. I feel very selfish saying that I want someone to feel this fully with me, but I think it’s because I’ve been alone so long, I’ve been in these situations by myself, I’m desperate to have someone that takes my hand and tells me I can relax now.
These relationships were behind closed doors. Nobody knows what I endured or what I had to do to feel the tiniest amount of safety. And I realize it’s my fault, I let it happen, but I didn’t have the tools to opt out, to figure it out, to remove myself. It’s such a waste of time. I can’t believe that I didn’t realize it, sooner.
And I had a taste of what it was like to be with someone that actually cared about me, someone who didn’t want me as their mommy. A very brief taste. And I was the best version of myself. Confident, bubbly, intoxicated by life, I loved myself, I felt safe, I got on an airplane again for the first time in 20 years. I felt like I finally belonged on Earth, in my life. That I was finally being rewarded for the shit I went through. So I know, I know without a doubt, that with the right love, a balanced love… I feel strong and whole.
So, today I don’t feel guilty for not showering her with gifts. I sent something, I recognized and honored her. But really? I should be getting flowers today from the two people I raised.
