I guess this is kind of a vent post. I’m sure some of you have felt this way, too. If you’re Catholic, I’m even more sure; in the “Hail Holy Queen”, we refer to this world as the “vale of tears”*, giving me reason enough to believe these sorts of thoughts must have crossed your mind at least once.
A/N: When I was looking for an image to post with this entry (which I didn’t use here, but is now the header image for this blog!), I discovered there actually are places on Earth called “Valley of Tears”. There’s one in Israel, and there’s one in Iceland, the latter being this beautiful valley full of these giant waterfalls. Just a fun fact, I guess, and a reminder for me that the world has beauty as well as ugliness.
I’m angry at God. I want to just throw a two-week’s notice at His face, and say, “I quit.” You know it’s bad when you’re angry for living as long as you have when you’re not even 30.
Some people have said, in light of thoughts like this, “What, did you expect life to be a pleasure cruise?” I didn’t expect anything because I didn’t sign up for anything! I was just shoved into the womb of an incredibly broken woman only to be shoved out of said womb into the arms of an incredibly broken man. I didn’t apply for that, nor anything that followed. I didn’t check the box for “female”, “mixed race”, “apparently too pretty not to touch”, and certainly not for “child abuse survivor”, “rape victim”, “coerced abortion victim”, “incest survivor”, etc.
I didn’t sign up for this. I was just put here, and expected to act like I had any say in it, expected to be happy, grateful even. Everyone wants me to just smile and be happy. How can I be? I hate this cruel world, and I hate this life where I had very little say about how badly it went.
I used to feel this way just about every day under my parents. It’s been just about every day for a month or two now. I’d say it came up since my mother came back in contact with me via emails. Hm…
Okay…feelings aside. Time to think.
Since my family contacted me, I’ve been feeling suicidal/self-harmful. I’ve also had a renewed anger, hatred even, for failed parental figures in my life, particularly father figures (in respect of “failed”, that is to say “just about every damn one of them”….Emotional slip. Refocusing).
dilemma: suicidal depression and overly-focused attention on father figures.
-> How do I not feel this way?
Well, what have I tried? I’ve spent more time with friends, drawn pictures, put myself out there for more income (two interviews, two rejections so far). I’m doing the right things, right? But then, I’d ride on the waves of anger and depression that comes. They’d been stronger lately, partially due to me locking it up in a steel box, even when I’m alone and can express it out or something, take the helm so to speak.
That’s the common denominator.
I feel betrayed, and all this stuff is how I’ve been expressing it, splintering it out.
I feel betrayed by the police, I guess, for 1) not keeping my family from contacting me, 2) not responding when I’d reported, and 3) swapping detectives on me again without so much as a word of warning.
I feel betrayed by my family, for 1) not respecting the boundaries I made and got police muscle to enforce, 2) not doing a single thing to make this offense less hurtful (eg. turn their damn lives around, admit what they did, stop acting the victim, etc), and 3) my father planting into my brain all my life that his life is in my hands, therefore making me have the constant fear of him killing himself because it’ll be all my damn fault.
Truly, that last point…that’s why I can’t ignore their messages when they come. Never-mind my grandfather’s health or whatever; I’m just waiting for one telling me he’s dead and it’s all my fault, just like he always told me in so many ways. My aunt already gave me some of that last Christmas which made me cry for hours, saying, “I think your dad’s dying, not being able to have contact with you.” I don’t really know why she felt the need to tell me that, considering what I (regrettably) told her about the family situation, my abuse. Going to chalk that up to another reason why I hate my grandparents, teaching their children to throw shade like that; my father was very good at it, too.
I guess this all answers why I’ve been so angry at all the grown-ups who betrayed me in whatever capacity, as well as why I think death would be a mercy. I could die right now and feel pretty okay with it…until concern for my soul’s destination kicks in, of course. I don’t really see myself making it to Heaven, to be honest. Can you imagine me, as filthy and disgusting as I am, putting one toe past the pearly gate? I’d probably burst into flame, leave a nasty mark on the white floor that some poor soul in Purgatory would have to mop up (hey, at least my nasty mark would shave off a couple years or decades off that soul’s sentence; you’re welcome, poor soul). I digress though.
Betrayal…that’s a very strange, very strong word for me. I always had a hard time applying it to how I feel. In Dante’s Inferno, the deepest, darkest circle of hell, reserved for Satan himself and some of the most hated sinners ever, is for Traitors. Maybe that’s why; betrayal is widely considered to be one of the worst things you could ever do to anyone. It’s part of why abuse is so bad, especially if it’s a child, and especially if it’s his/her own family that does it; it’s a betrayal of what a family is supposed to be.
I guess, if I think about it, no one betrayed me more than my father did. Even if that night never happened (like I’d been trying very hard to pretend it didn’t with little success), he violated just about every single thing a father ought to be. The only thing he or my mother succeeded at in their role as parents was material provision. This too they tried to manipulate me and the rest of society with, marking down the merit significantly while inflicting great shame on me with every deposit, but they did succeed in that.
This brings me to an odd thought a friend introduced to me the other day, that love has a hierarchy. There’s such thing, he said, as “selfish love”, which is doing good things for selfish reasons. I always just figured that the selfish reasons made those good things bad things, but then, there are times when I was little when I’d done good things just so I’d not get punished (granted, I’d get punished regardless, but that’s besides the point).
This same friend would say, as it’s often been said, that at the root of every unhealthy/unholy habit is a desire to give or receive love. That’s what makes things addictive, because love is addictive. Everyone wants love. When one learns something is love, and what’s more a higher, most desirable sort of love, one will pursue it with all his/her passion, even if it’s something that also brings shame at best, death at worst.
He also said that my parents probably “love” me to the capacity that they do because that’s the only way they know how to love. Makes sense, given their own upbringing. Maybe when mother was tearfully talking about her abuse when I was trying (tearfully) to make her understand what her abuse did to me, she was trying to say, “I didn’t know better.” Too bad she didn’t want to learn better (like what I’m having to do, without any parental guidance what’s more), or we could still have a relationship.
Lot of things coming out here. Maybe I best come to a conclusion:
Love has different types (friendship, family, romantic, or charitable), and it has differing degrees. Intent determines degree, though not as much the word/deed itself. My parents betrayed me, as did my siblings, my aunts, uncles, and cousins. They are less trustworthy than the largely untrustworthy world. The one kind of love they know how to do best is send money. That hurts the least and is the least personal. Therefore…maybe if I see, as my friend suggested, their monthly compensation as a gift, it would cause less distress and shame?
But…what if it ends up being a trap, like it has 99.9% of the time in the past? Abusers have a history of giving gifts to their victims to shut them up and/or invalidate them. My parents are no different. What’s more, my friend took it as proof that my parents love me, if for selfish reasons, (though he also claimed that all parents inherently love their children, if nothing more than in the respect of just giving life to them; what a rosy insight) but what if he meant what they meant it to mean all these years, that I’m just spoiled and not being abused, not in the right for staying the hell away from them?
Who knows. I sure as hell don’t. It’s all I got though, from what I have so far.
Amidst all the other things my friend said, he was sure to tell me that I shouldn’t put that on myself, the weight of my father’s life. I don’t really know how to, except avoid him (and all my other family members by association, because what one hears they all hear).
…I don’t think this ended up making me feel better at all.
I’ve already self-harmed today, left red scratches from my nails earlier. I’m not actively thinking about self-harm or worse, but I still wish I could just end, be free. I kind of believe God would have me live forever while I still want to die, and will only finally end my life when I want to be here; therefore it’s unlikely. I know suicide is wrong. Even if I doubt my chances of going to Heaven, I don’t want to diminish what little chance I have with suicide, which I ask God to have mercy on me.
…This home doesn’t feel like mine anymore. I thought I worked hard, created this space for myself, but some of it was funded by them. I’m still owned by them. The chains are still in place.
…I’m never going to feel these chains unfettered, am I? I’m going to have to live like this for the rest of my life, aren’t I…?
That’s despair. That’s dangerous.
The facts seem to all add up, though. What facts counter this despairing conclusion?
I don’t live in their house anymore. I don’t drive their car anymore. I don’t have their insurance, their food, their phone, electricity, water, internet, books, video games, etc. Most everything I own was selected and purchased by me; nothing here doesn’t belong, and if it no longer belongs, it’s happily given away to charity.
They have very little access to me. They’ve (so far) respected the boundary banning all contact, apart from the incidents involving my phone and email. This is strengthened by psychological grooming dictating I hold full responsibility over my father’s life, and my mother’s emotions though, amplifying the adverse effect. They’re holding my siblings captive with their stubborn refusal to admit their abuse, so I no longer have them. All things said or done with them go back to the parents.
I used to go out with my sister, soon after I was kicked out, and we’d have a good enough time. Then it’d time to bring her home (because she couldn’t drive herself), and she’d shame me into going into that house. I think she even said something along the lines of “Don’t be such a baby.” That’s kind of how it was like whenever they shamed me into coming back into their house, pulling those chains.
So, I did give them a chance.
I gave them a whole year of chances to let them have any contact with me. Every time, I’d come home and cry for hours. I’d try to communicate what I needed, what I was going through. Never heeded. Eventually, I sought to keep them from having any contact when they proved themselves untrustworthy to respect my wishes to have no contact until they can turn around.
My little brother was the last one I still had contact with before that ended (at least regularly). He just turned 18. My friend suggested I message him a happy birthday. That hurt quite a bit, but I did. Before I stopped writing regularly, he’d tell me things that hurt a lot more, so I guess I can’t complain. He stated very bluntly once that “It was always your fault,” something I can’t fault him for because the facts were twisted in front of his eyes, like how he saw his angry sister running away from her loving family, not knowing she was angry that day for not even having the dignity of being kicked out on her own terms (I said I’d take my things myself in my own car, so they won’t know my new address; came out that morning to find half my belongings in their car which they followed me to said address, hence why they’re never getting so much as my phone number again). He’d tell me how mother cried every single night over me “leaving her” (as I guess she and my father conveniently forgot that they were the ones ordered me to leave in a month, as my father said when he met me in secret at my parish that I was “causing too much trouble” to his family and his marriage).
…I feel horrible about not having contact with him, to be honest. I was practically his mother. I tried to bring him up right in a house that was all wrong, stood up for him, tried to protect him. He was my little boy, now a young man. He’s not that little boy anymore, and I’m proud of how he’s grown. I’m frightened though, of what’s going on in his head and heart; it’s most likely the same as what was going on in mine when I was his age. He struggled with depression and this fixed idea that he was useless and lazy, something our parents planted in all our heads. I don’t know if he sees how smart he is, or creative, or kind.
…I hate this.
I told my doctor last session, “I don’t think I like life very much, or at all.” He asked in reply, “Is it life you don’t like, or the bad things?” I can’t say; couldn’t then, either.
All I know is I want to hide away somewhere quiet where nothing can hurt me. Maybe my stormroom (thanks for reminding me, Grace).