Being Real 1

UPDATED MARCH 2022

Being Real 1 Growing up

Grieving never takes a vacation for me. Grief and I are old friends. It will be lifelong and I have accepted that. I can feel so alone and saddened and filled with hope and joyful expectation all at the same time. I am writing of my own experience growing up in an oppressive home. I am not whining or blaming or bashing. Simply telling it like it is. Telling it like it was.

I grew up with abuse. My father abdicated his role to my mother. He did not lead. She wore the pants. She was a very angry and bitter woman and the years only seemed to increase that. She shamed me and my two sisters and used the silent treatment(sometimes for months at a time)or yelling to keep us in line. She was mean. I was very afraid of her. My every thought or action was treated with disdain and I began to hide and try to change the Carla that I was. Into the Carla that she wanted. The Carla that would please her. I tried to be a good girl. A perfect girl. I believed that I could make her love me. I knew deep down that she didn't. I felt that she hated me. Nothing I did was ever good enough. I can't recall her ever holding me or playing with my hair, rocking me or reading to me. There was great shame in being me. I wasn't allowed to be who I was. My feelings were wrong. I was wrong. I was a shy, quiet child with an imagination and love to give. I wanted to sing and dance and write poetry. I did and was ridiculed for it.

"Why did you do that? Why did you say that? Why are you crying? Stop crying! You shouldn't be angry about that. There is no reason to be angry, sad, hurt etc. I can't believe you did that again! How many times do I have to tell you?? What were you thinking??!! How could you be so stupid? Are you crazy??"

Instead of saying to me, "You made your bed now sleep in it" My dad would say, "You really pissed in your hat this time Carla." I had no idea what that even meant except that somehow I screwed everything up and it was hopeless. I was a hopeless case.

My dad tried to keep the peace. He was always telling jokes to lighten the mood or cause some kind of distraction. He never stood up for me or stood up to her. He and I got along better than my mom and I did and my mom was jealous of that. Which caused more tension. My father did hug me on occasion. My mom did not allow any talk of religion or politics in our home. But my Dad told me in secret that there was a God and also that He sent His Son to die on a cross for me. I believed there was a God but that He didn't love me either. I imagined that He was watching me but was not interested in the pain that I was feeling and the deep and abiding loneliness. He did nothing to change things even though I prayed every night for change. My dad was also rather perverted. He had 3 daughters. He told us dirty jokes and wanted us to read his dirty joke books. He was always walking in on us as we showered or were dressing or undressing. We didn't lock the doors when we should have. But a dad shouldn't do that either. He would say the same thing every single time. "Whoops. Sorry. I didn't know anyone was in here."

My older sister was physically abusive. She beat me up as a child and put me down in front of her friends. She called me a lesbian in the 5th grade. I didn't know what that was. This behavior continued well into high school. She told me she wanted to hurt me. She told me she would beat me up. I remember trying to lock my door as she tried to get in. She pounded and pounded and pounded on it yelling, "I am going to kill you!!" She hid in my room and jumped me at night when I was going to sleep. She outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds. I was so ashamed that I couldn't fight back and tried in vain to win. I never did. Well except for that one time I punched her square in the nose. She got a bloody nose and her revenge. She couldn't stand being around me unless I was making her laugh or drinking with her. I did both so I could avoid her punches and slaps. What I really wanted was a sisterfriend. Why wasn't she nice to me? Why didn't she love me? I always told my parents about what she did. They told her to stop.

My younger sister was 4 years younger than me. I loved her dearly and had the softest spot in my heart for her. Such a sweet, darling little girl and I loved playing with her and helping her do big girl things. As I grew I became more involved in my own life and left her alone. She was left to raise herself, as all of us girls were. She came to hate me at what she thought was my rejection of her. I was just trying to survive my life and raise myself the best way I knew how.

With the total lack of love and affection in my own home I reached out to my grandmother Nora. She lived four hours away. She did love me. She said she did and I knew it. She would look into my eyes and tell me I was beautiful and I so wanted to believe her. She told me that I was special, that I had gifts, that I could see beauty everywhere and that I was funny. I didn't see her as much as I wanted to but she gave me her heart and I had hers. She passed away when I was 14.

The pain of her death was more than I could bear. I began to drink to cope with my grief and had thoughts of suicide. I hid knives around my room and late at night I would take them out and hold the sharp blades, willing myself to do it. I wanted to be done with this life. I couldn't do it. I didn't have anyone. I berated myself for not having the courage to slit my wrists. I couldn't even do that right. I continued living the loneliness at home and the joy of being with friends at school. They saved my life at 14. Their friendship and unconditional love meant the world to me. My best friend Shelly was the bright spot in my days and her laughter got me through the desperation and fear that I felt at home.

I don't know that I could fully put into words what it felt like to be rejected in the deepest part of my being. It crushed me on a daily basis. I began to hate myself for needing and wanting their love. I hated myself because I obviously was unlovable. As I reached for love or affection or affirmation I was rejected. I was not a cherished daughter. I was not a protected daughter. I was never worthy in their eyes of affirmation or affection. I never had my parent's hearts. I would not receive what I so longed for. Ever. I began to stop reaching. But I never stopped hoping things would change.

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Being Real 1

Being Real 2

Being Real 3

Being Real 4

Being Real 5

Being Real 6