First Edition: Love & Family Concepts
This is a scary topic. To be vulnerable.
But I need to be vulnerable to myself. And more importantly for others.
I have problems… problems in all aspects of my life. You can name them:
I kid you not when I say every aspect. And a lot of them are tied together.
Like Love and Family.
Tonight, I write about the individuality of Love and Family… Later they will be tied together because their relationship will be evident as I lay the ground work of why I am the way I am.
The concepts of my Love and Family is what I will be covering on this, now, early morning of January 9th, 2019.
I guess an important area to start is my love life. Especially when there is someone in my life who I do love. I mean I am listening to a playlist made about him as I write this, but I need to be honest. I’m scared. I am scared to commit to someone while all at the same time I dream of our future, and I only let one side-show. I let the part where I fantasize about our future show. But that will only last so long. I know myself better than anyone else, and I know at some point I am going to become overwhelmed. Scared that the judgement I am putting on myself will be the exact same judgement of other people. Most of all, I am scared, so scared, that people will judge my love. That is the most vulnerable part of me. I fortunately grew up with a mom and a dad, but I also grew up unfortunately with a mom and dad who did not love each other. I mean they did I am sure in the beginning, but not long enough for me to have confidence in a healthy relationship. I am terrified of public affection. Part because I did not know that growing up and part because of judgement. I do not feel old enough to be able to love let alone worthy of it, yet here I am loving someone or at least doing my best to love someone. I know from the bottom of my heart I love him, but he has to be too good for me, right? I have loved before, a very unfortunate love. But never this type of love. This love feels old. He is someone who I feel I have known my whole life. He feels like home. He is the only person I have ever felt confidence in. I feel confident in a future with him. But here comes the tragedy that reassured me that my life is in fact a tragedy. He says he loves me, but he was sure of leaving me just two weeks prior. This is all a hypothetical, him leaving. If he gets accepted to a program then he spends two years in Germany. A very independent person I might add. But he was sure of us breaking up. I had never seen someone more sure of something in my life. I had also never had tears well in my eyes the minute someone says just words. I guess that is why this is a tragedy. I do not let him know now that this affects me. I probably do this out of pure fear. Lose someone you love. It is scary and always sits on my heart. I am a tampered soul in love with another tampered soul. Tragic indeed.
I mentioned my family briefly in the first section where I talked about my tragic love, but it gets much more dicey than that. The supposed love of my life has not even hears the extent of my family life, nor have I made it a public ordeal. Heck, my best friend does not even know the extent. Only one person knows the entire ordeal and lived through it with me. She is no longer in my life and in fact hates me, but that is another story for another time. Back to my family story: I do not know when it began. Like my love, I was in the middle before I even knew it had begun. I guess my awareness came with age. I do not remember much about sixth grade except for the terribly embarrassing parts. I do remember seventh grade or at least that school year’s New Years Eve. I knew my mom and dad drank alcohol. Was I bothered by it? No. Did that all change? Yes. It was New Years Eve of 2012 just hours before the New Year 2013. My grandmother, my dad’s mother, had died the previous year, 2011, on New Years Eve. 2011 was also the year that saw my father get laid off. 2012 saw my father being unemployed. The past year had been a tough one, but little did I know the years to come would be even harder. My mom began to become a different kind of drunk also within the year. She was angry. To this day, I still have no idea why she was angry. All I know is that alcoholism runs in her family, my family. December 31st, 2012 gave me my first glimpse into what would be my life to this day. I had a friend over as did my sister, who is two years younger. We did an oh-so-cringy photo shoot in our basement which really led up to my mother screaming. Why? I cannot remember, but what I do know is she called the cops on my father. Why? For no reason other than she was drunk, and she did not want him around. The cops came. My first, but certainly not last, encounter with the police. She was isolated by the cops due to her unstable behavior. My father was the clear-headed one so he explained nothing was wrong but her. They were able to defuse the situation enough to leave. My friends had to witness it all. How embarrassing, but more so.. how scarring. Not to just throw in… the next day I started my period for the first time. Now that is tragic. But anyhow, this continued. The all too familiar drunken nights, vicious yelling, and visits from the police. It became the usual. It began to happen so often that only some experiences stand out from others. Like the New Years Eve story. And like her arrest story (to come another time). But one experience, or experiences I should say, stand out the most. This is not something I can pin point the beginning of, again, I was in the middle before I even knew it. She started to direct her anger at me. I became the easier target than my father. My father was still a target, but I was just the one that was a small, newly teen girl while he was a grown man. She began attacking me… emotionally and physically. I can recall one instance like it was yesterday… . She was drunk and yelling. For what reason? I do not know. Probably for a reason like “you are just like your father.” But I was standing in my doorway, I was the first room when you came up the stairs to the second-level. She came out of her room, the last room when you came up the stairs, and she met me at my doorway. Yelling. I recall my dad was laying in bed trying to sleep while she was her usual angry drunk. But there was something different about the anger when she approached me. This time it was like she did not even account for me being her child. Again, I was in the middle before I had known it. She had punched me in the face. More so head if anything. Still a closed fist blow. So hard in fact my glasses flew off my head and at least two feet across the floor. I ran bawling my eyes out for my dad to call the cops. That she had just punched me. He wouldn’t though. He did not want them to visit again. I do not know if I really to this day have 1) confronted him about this or even 2) forgave him. But that was not the end of the abuse. It came and went with her drunken nights, so I at least am grateful it was not consistent. What was consistent though was my plummeting mental health (more to come on the specifics of that topic later). I guess I was depressed. I refused to call it that then but again what else would you call self-harm and suicidal thoughts. I had cut myself from the seventh grade to the beginning of freshman year. This is the part that not many people know. I had two razor blades that I kept from anyone finding. They were hidden next to my childhood piggy bank. I would go into the bathroom and do what I felt I deserved. It was always somewhere no one could see… my thighs.. my sides… my upper arm… even my toes. I guess the worst it has been was when I cut completely up both sides of my torso. I refuse this to be who I was, but it was in fact my reality. I also remember the day I was going to kill myself. I had fallen out of faith at the time so that was not what kept me from doing it. What kept me from doing it was my dad and my future. I did sit there though on my bathroom floor with those damned razor blades that I had torn off of a shaver. But I had sat there thinking about it, crying hysterically. Just as I was going to cut my arms open I thought about my father finding me. That is what changed my mind. As I began to think about it, I decided I could not leave him the burden of my selfish desires. So I wiped my tears, put down the razors, and left the bathroom. I still had to live through my mother’s abuse, but I did so knowing that I rather have it that way then her taking it out on my father or my sisters. I had to make myself strong enough to take the blows, so the rest of my family would not have to. (The story of her arrest and restraining order fits in here) I took the blows even after my parents declared a divorce. I took on an even more important role of protecting my sisters. My father was able to get out of the situation by moving out, but I had to deal with it everyday. I say everyday because that is what happened. I was her personal punching bag. If I yelled back she threatened to call the cops or have me sent off to a mental hospital. That was the power she had over me. She was my legal guardian, I was a minor, and my father was too poor to fight for me. She would even sometimes actually call the cops, and no matter what I would tell them about how I felt unsafe. They would always tell me “She is your mother and had every right” and “If your mother keeps calling the cops on you then that obviously means that there is a problem here, so if it happens again there is a likelihood we will have to take you in” I resent the Olathe Police Department every single day for that. For not hearing my cry for help. For not seeing through my mother’s fake persona she put on whenever the cops would show up. For not seeing that she was lying straight to their face while I was telling nothing but the truth. For not seeing that I was sleeping in my car to escape my mother. For not seeing that the tears that streamed down my face were tears built from years of abuse. I resent them. I resented them till the day I moved out of my mother’s house. January 19th, 2018, I moved in with my father. Just four days before my 18th birthday. He had gotten an apartment that Monday just so I could move into a healthy space of our own. That is the day the physical abuse stopped. But as sad as it may be… the emotional abuse continues, and I am fearful it may always be that way. For she is a sick woman who needs help. But she first needs to see that she is ill and needs help. I pray for that day.
This family tragedy has made me who I am… for the better… and for the worse. I am harder to give love and be loved in return because of her. She has corrupted my image of self-love and self-worth. And that is going to always be something I struggle with. I have many cracks in my foundation, and I guess I am just looking for someone to not pave over them but to fill them with soil and grow flowers out of them. And I think I found him, but I need to do the same for him. I need to be his light just as much as I need him to be mine.
To Be Continued… (the mental health portion of my life that covers the remaining topics: Physical, Mental, and Emotional)