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Instead of going through a whole sequence of painful events(there are too many) growing up I will highlight a few.
I was probably 13 years old and wondering about puberty and had all kinds of questions for my mother. A lot of my girlfriends had developing bodies and I wondered about me. The when, how and why of changing for me brought so much anxiety into my life. I wanted and needed some answers and encouragement. I went to her and began to ask questions. I asked for her help in understanding when my body might start changing. I started crying. A big NO NO!! I could barely get any more words out about what I was thinking. I reached out to her for a hug. I opened my arms to her. She leaned away from me and with a look of disgust said, “Just go to bed, Carla.” She walked upstairs. I just stood there. And even though I wasn’t supposed to cry I did. I sobbed. I was so lonely for a mother’s love. A mother’s touch. Some reassurance. Affirmation. Anything that resembled comfort or care. A punch in the stomach might have felt better. I took her advice and went to bed and cried myself to sleep. I did that a lot. The stuffing of my feelings continued.
Still trying to earn my parent’s love I tried to do well in school. I received A’s and B’s and self satisfaction from the hard work I put in. I would make the honor roll and later the Dean’s List in college. My mom always said the same thing. “Don’t tell your sisters. They will feel bad.” My sisters earned their D’s and F’s. I wanted to hear “I’m so proud of you!!” Instead it was an admonishment to not get a big head or “toot my own horn” or that I thought I was smarter than everyone else or that it really wasn’t that big of a deal.
My father confided in me constantly about his marriage and asked my advice. He wanted to know if I thought he should get a divorce. I said no. But I changed my answer to YES! Get a divorce! Get me the heck outta here!! He never did take my advice. Um. Yeah. I was a kid!! What did I know?? He was a traveling salesman through my teen years. I had limited access to him. When I did see him he was always willing to share a dirty joke or two.
Middle school. Good grief. The boys and their rubberbands snapped on my backside. The snapping of bras. My locker neighbor put his hand down my shirt and grabbed me. I was full of shame and doubt and anxiety. I wanted school to at least be a safe place.
The hatred of self began in earnest during high school. I tried to gain control of the only thing I felt I could control. What I ate and how I looked. I stopped eating. I starved myself from 130 pounds to 109 and sailed away on the comments I received from people on how good I looked. How skinny I was. I had to eat sometime and that began to look like bulimia/anorexia in my life. My parents didn't seem to notice or care. Eating tons of food and throwing up was simply ISH and so I stopped doing that but obsessing about my weight and how I looked was constant. How I saw myself and what I really looked like were two very different things. Years later my older sister told me that my parents were so worried about me. But not worried enough to actually try and help me.
My older sister slit her wrists in front of me late one night. I grabbed a towel and went to tell my parents. She begged me not to tell if she promised to never do it again. I didn’t tell. She claimed she was raped and told me never to tell anyone. But I wanted her to get some help and told my parents. They all laughed at me because she had made it all up. “How can you be so stupid, Carla? Why would you believe that I was raped??” My mom paid for my sister’s abortion. I was told, “Don’t ever tell your dad, it would kill him.” I was so confused. If abortion was the answer why would it kill my dad to know about it? I was sexually assaulted at a party that my sister brought me to. The man was a friend of ours. She didn’t want to get him in trouble as he was also a friend of my ex boyfriend, so she made me promise not to tell anyone. I buried it and only remembered it last month. 40+ years later.
The longing for love was paramount in my life. I spent a lot of time in fantasy land and wondered if I would ever have a boyfriend. I read all of the dumb romance novels. I daydreamed and fantasized that one day I might be loved but honestly thought I wouldn't. The 80’s songs hardly helped. What’s love got to do with it? Love stinks. Love is a battlefield. I wanna know what love is.
I am no rocket scientist but this part seems rather textbook to me. A girl growing up without love will try to find it wherever she can. I would rather not go into every relationship I found myself in. The loneliness was compounded with each and every breakup and the cycle of looking for what I wanted from my own family and never finding it in men went on through high school and college. They told me they loved me, I did things I didn't want to do and after awhile I convinced myself that I just didn't really care anymore. I drank. I partied. I was in a violent relationship. Until I fled. I had an abortion I didn’t want. My pattern of sinful, self destructive ways. I was a mess. An adult mess. Still struggling to “find myself” and find love.
I always had high expectations of our family get togethers. I envisioned my parents and sisters finally looking at me and telling me how much they really did love me and how proud of me they were and sorry they were. Instead it just became me defending my life. Why did I do that? Why did I think that? Why was I so crazy? It was exhausting. And confusing. I would leave every birthday, anniversary or holiday in tears and vow to never do that again. But I did. In between the get togethers there came phone messages. My roommate’s answering machine would be filled with hateful, hurtful angry messages with tons of swearing. Always from my sisters yelling that I had hurt Mom's feelings or how the whole family was so mad at me. I was in the doghouse again. I could never do anything right. A family spokesperson was usually selected to try and educate me on how to NOT screw up again. I always apologized for things I didn't do. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
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7 comments:
God's grace works miracles. You're one of them.
Boy Carla, if I didn't know it, I would think you were talking about me in both parts one and two.
Really Anon??
Wow. That makes me feed sad/good at the same time. If that makes sense.
Yea, me too. Only it was my dad and not my mom. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach by that paragraph. It brought back a lot of feelings - weird.
man, i too feel as if i am reading my own story. i only have one sister, but she is venomous for 5. it hurts, and it still does sometimes. family get-togethers are nightmares for me. i get what you are writing. i wish i could write it out like this, but i can't, as she follows my blog..
Babe...I love you!
If we all knew the truth we could be spared this. So many are taking the shame and blame for other people who did were abused in the family they grew up with. Someone has to stop the cycle. I am glad that you are able to understand that you are only the problem when you believe lies.
God bless you to always see through His eyes of love.
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