I'm feeling it today, boy. I just sent my daughter off to school after having a meltdown of Biblical proportions. What did I learn from this tragedy? I stuff too much. I've never told anyone TOO many things about my past. I've never been properly "taken care of". . .and I'm mad as hell about it. I've also realized that I'm a completely horrible Mother. In no way, did my daughter deserve what I dumped on her, nor did she ever need to know what my life looked like at her age. That's my cross to bear, not hers. Alas, I've made it hers, haven't I? I painted an image of my past that, although, painfully true, is honestly too ugly for her to handle. How could I do this? I. Have. No. Idea.
I try, extremely hard, to not let on to others, especially my loved ones how horrible things really were in my childhood home. Now, I know that y'all are gonna be like "What? You tell US everything!". Um, NOT! I truly do tend to candy coat things, even here. I find it very difficult to be completely honest about how truly bad, bad was. Most of the time, I can move through the world just fine. I can get up each morning and plug in and work my work and do my chores and love my children and cook and clean and chat with my girl friends and check in with my sisters and reach out to my cousin, all without jadedness or pain or jealousy. Ah, jealousy. That's the root of it, isn't it? In actual fact, I am jealous of my daughter. I'm angry at her that she has such a much better life than I did and yet, she doesn't really appreciate it. Well, duh? She's fucking thirteen?
But. . . .Is that really the truth of it? Can no thirteen year old appreciate their life? I did. Even with how ugly it was; hell, maybe BECAUSE it was so ugly. I realized that what little I did have, was precious. It meant something. I would cling on to any kindness like it was a life vest in the middle of a stormy sea. So, what I really should feel is relief, not jealousy. I SHOULD feel relieved that she's spoiled rotten. I SHOULD see it for what it is. . . .she's confident that she'll be loved no matter what, she secure in her place in our family, she trusts me. Amazing.
Yet, here I sit, jealous as hell. Green with it, people. I don't know what it's like to have a Mother or a Father that ACTUALLY love you, unconditionally. Hell, at all. I've been molested, beaten, attacked, neglected and flat out ignored, put down, made to feel like I was nothing more than a burden and reminded that my father was "the devil himself", thus, I'm the spawn of Satan. Very nice. I've been cleaning peoples houses, cooking peoples meals and taking care of children since I was ten. I was doing laundry, buying my own winter coat (which I still own, by the way), cooking dinner for the whole family every night and taking care of babies when I was twelve. I was also a good student, who never talked back or was disrespectful. I walked the straight and narrow folks. Literally. Why? I wonder what it is in my basic internal make-up that doesn't even ALLOW me to stand up for myself. That part of me that must be stunted or down right broken? Yet, when it does seem to kick in, I handle it all wrong and lash out at MY own innocent child? What on Earth is the matter with me?
I don't want a hug. From anyone. I've gotten to the point where people trying to comfort me, is so uncomfortable that it nearly HURTS me. Brilliant. I'm in desperate need of love, comfort and care and yet if someone offers it to me, I can't even accept it. Perfect. I'm much more comfortable with being abandoned. Unwanted. Undesired. Easier for me. Bizarre. I can understand why people leave me. I can understand why I'm nothing more than. . . .whatever people think I am. They're right. I'm broken. It's painfully obvious to most people. Even though, I try EXTREMELY hard, to insure that it doesn't leak through, I suppose that it's kind of like a trash bag. . .it can hold the inner trash, yet somehow the smell still leaks out. Let me tell you ---- the smell was pretty ripe in my kitchen this morning!
My daughter did a horrible job cleaning the kitchen. Honestly, at least she made an attempt. When her father isn't home, she doesn't even do that. Overall, I should have been thrilled. I, clearly, wasn't. I told her that if "I had left the kitchen like this, I would have been beaten out of bed." She looked at me and blinked. "What does that even mean?" she asked. In true horrible mother form, I told her. I told her how my mother and step father would hit me in the face and grab my hair and yank me out of bed when I didn't meet they're expectations. I could have gone on and on about the times that my step father lashed out at me because I was "talking to other boys" or didn't comply with some horrible request. How my mother would beat me when I did anything wrong, if she even THOUGHT that I had lied to her, or when I spilled flour on the floor on accident one morning, or when I knocked a plant over when I was mopping the floor. Thankfully, I stopped when I did. She seemed shocked. Like she was looking at a bad car accident. What did I do?
So, what brought this on? Where did I dig up this old pain? It's funny. I think it was just the perfect storm, swirling around and gaining strength over a period of time. I felt it bubbling underneath, but, couldn't stop the churning. I've had conversations about my childhood recently; I watched a show or two that "dug" some stuff up: my husband's been gone: my daughters are going through puberty. Just normal everyday things for most people. Yet, I could feel something stirring. Some old wound starting to ache and burn. I should have seen it coming. By this time in my life I should be able to stop this feeling in it's tracks. I usually do. I'm sad to say that I feel no sense of relief. I can still feel it, in there, deep down, screaming to get out. Even now. . . .there's so much more that I want to say, yet, I find myself "turning it down a notch" or twenty. I don't want to seem like I'm begging for sympathy. That's just not --- IT, at all. I think what I want; what I NEED, even, is understanding. I just need people to understand why I am the way I am. I want folks to forgive me for being overly sensitive, for always telling the truth, for being "too nice" and polite, for being OVERLY agreeable, for my seemingly inexplicable need to feel vindicated for my step fathers lies, my irrational desire to NOT be held or snuggled with, to want to sleep alone. I need understanding when all I want to do is run away from every single responsibility I have and yet don't have the strength to let one thing go. I need to STOP feeling so damn guilty for even WANTING to step out of my role as wife and mother, for a minute. I need to be forgiven for my weight. I need to be allowed to break down every now and again, even if you don't know why. I just need the people who love me to know, I am broken, but, I am also trying. I'm trying to piece myself back together with whatever pieces I can find. I will fall down. A lot. I will "leak out the smell", every now and again. Please forgive me. Please know that I'm sorry if it hurts you to know what my reality was. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for it all. I wish that I could take something STRONG and clean it all out of me. Believe me, I do. I am, who I am BECAUSE of what's happened to me. Just like, you're who you are because of what's happened to you. I generally LIKE who I am. I generally LIKE who you are. Even when the "leaks" happen. I just wish that my "leak" wasn't such an unfortunate eruption of pain. I wish that I hadn't let this garbage touch my sweet, sweet child. I never wanted her to know where I came from. ((((HEAVY SIGH)))))
Take a deep breath..........it's just another day in Perfect!!!!!
I try, extremely hard, to not let on to others, especially my loved ones how horrible things really were in my childhood home. Now, I know that y'all are gonna be like "What? You tell US everything!". Um, NOT! I truly do tend to candy coat things, even here. I find it very difficult to be completely honest about how truly bad, bad was. Most of the time, I can move through the world just fine. I can get up each morning and plug in and work my work and do my chores and love my children and cook and clean and chat with my girl friends and check in with my sisters and reach out to my cousin, all without jadedness or pain or jealousy. Ah, jealousy. That's the root of it, isn't it? In actual fact, I am jealous of my daughter. I'm angry at her that she has such a much better life than I did and yet, she doesn't really appreciate it. Well, duh? She's fucking thirteen?
But. . . .Is that really the truth of it? Can no thirteen year old appreciate their life? I did. Even with how ugly it was; hell, maybe BECAUSE it was so ugly. I realized that what little I did have, was precious. It meant something. I would cling on to any kindness like it was a life vest in the middle of a stormy sea. So, what I really should feel is relief, not jealousy. I SHOULD feel relieved that she's spoiled rotten. I SHOULD see it for what it is. . . .she's confident that she'll be loved no matter what, she secure in her place in our family, she trusts me. Amazing.
Yet, here I sit, jealous as hell. Green with it, people. I don't know what it's like to have a Mother or a Father that ACTUALLY love you, unconditionally. Hell, at all. I've been molested, beaten, attacked, neglected and flat out ignored, put down, made to feel like I was nothing more than a burden and reminded that my father was "the devil himself", thus, I'm the spawn of Satan. Very nice. I've been cleaning peoples houses, cooking peoples meals and taking care of children since I was ten. I was doing laundry, buying my own winter coat (which I still own, by the way), cooking dinner for the whole family every night and taking care of babies when I was twelve. I was also a good student, who never talked back or was disrespectful. I walked the straight and narrow folks. Literally. Why? I wonder what it is in my basic internal make-up that doesn't even ALLOW me to stand up for myself. That part of me that must be stunted or down right broken? Yet, when it does seem to kick in, I handle it all wrong and lash out at MY own innocent child? What on Earth is the matter with me?
I don't want a hug. From anyone. I've gotten to the point where people trying to comfort me, is so uncomfortable that it nearly HURTS me. Brilliant. I'm in desperate need of love, comfort and care and yet if someone offers it to me, I can't even accept it. Perfect. I'm much more comfortable with being abandoned. Unwanted. Undesired. Easier for me. Bizarre. I can understand why people leave me. I can understand why I'm nothing more than. . . .whatever people think I am. They're right. I'm broken. It's painfully obvious to most people. Even though, I try EXTREMELY hard, to insure that it doesn't leak through, I suppose that it's kind of like a trash bag. . .it can hold the inner trash, yet somehow the smell still leaks out. Let me tell you ---- the smell was pretty ripe in my kitchen this morning!
My daughter did a horrible job cleaning the kitchen. Honestly, at least she made an attempt. When her father isn't home, she doesn't even do that. Overall, I should have been thrilled. I, clearly, wasn't. I told her that if "I had left the kitchen like this, I would have been beaten out of bed." She looked at me and blinked. "What does that even mean?" she asked. In true horrible mother form, I told her. I told her how my mother and step father would hit me in the face and grab my hair and yank me out of bed when I didn't meet they're expectations. I could have gone on and on about the times that my step father lashed out at me because I was "talking to other boys" or didn't comply with some horrible request. How my mother would beat me when I did anything wrong, if she even THOUGHT that I had lied to her, or when I spilled flour on the floor on accident one morning, or when I knocked a plant over when I was mopping the floor. Thankfully, I stopped when I did. She seemed shocked. Like she was looking at a bad car accident. What did I do?
So, what brought this on? Where did I dig up this old pain? It's funny. I think it was just the perfect storm, swirling around and gaining strength over a period of time. I felt it bubbling underneath, but, couldn't stop the churning. I've had conversations about my childhood recently; I watched a show or two that "dug" some stuff up: my husband's been gone: my daughters are going through puberty. Just normal everyday things for most people. Yet, I could feel something stirring. Some old wound starting to ache and burn. I should have seen it coming. By this time in my life I should be able to stop this feeling in it's tracks. I usually do. I'm sad to say that I feel no sense of relief. I can still feel it, in there, deep down, screaming to get out. Even now. . . .there's so much more that I want to say, yet, I find myself "turning it down a notch" or twenty. I don't want to seem like I'm begging for sympathy. That's just not --- IT, at all. I think what I want; what I NEED, even, is understanding. I just need people to understand why I am the way I am. I want folks to forgive me for being overly sensitive, for always telling the truth, for being "too nice" and polite, for being OVERLY agreeable, for my seemingly inexplicable need to feel vindicated for my step fathers lies, my irrational desire to NOT be held or snuggled with, to want to sleep alone. I need understanding when all I want to do is run away from every single responsibility I have and yet don't have the strength to let one thing go. I need to STOP feeling so damn guilty for even WANTING to step out of my role as wife and mother, for a minute. I need to be forgiven for my weight. I need to be allowed to break down every now and again, even if you don't know why. I just need the people who love me to know, I am broken, but, I am also trying. I'm trying to piece myself back together with whatever pieces I can find. I will fall down. A lot. I will "leak out the smell", every now and again. Please forgive me. Please know that I'm sorry if it hurts you to know what my reality was. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for it all. I wish that I could take something STRONG and clean it all out of me. Believe me, I do. I am, who I am BECAUSE of what's happened to me. Just like, you're who you are because of what's happened to you. I generally LIKE who I am. I generally LIKE who you are. Even when the "leaks" happen. I just wish that my "leak" wasn't such an unfortunate eruption of pain. I wish that I hadn't let this garbage touch my sweet, sweet child. I never wanted her to know where I came from. ((((HEAVY SIGH)))))
Take a deep breath..........it's just another day in Perfect!!!!!
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