When I talk about my childhood fracturing my personality I mention the moving because it is a handy way of having numbers that people can wrap their head around. It causes problems too because… it wasn’t just the act of moving. During many/most of those moves I was living with people I didn’t know who didn’t like me very much. I spent my childhood moving through households with different rules… and no one but me explains why rules are different very well. I know how because I learned during my childhood. No one else has ever been able to explain rule variations to me in a way that made sense. But I can explain it. Because I lived it.
It wasn’t just the moving. It was that every few months my mom would take all of my toys and give them away because we had to flee and it didn’t matter what anything meant to me. Many of my moves were 1-3 month stays. I was often by myself with families I didn’t know who were distant friend’s of my mother. I was not an easy child. Everyone made sure to tell me how difficult I was all. the. damn. time. I didn’t settle in and feel like I ever had a home. I usually didn’t know my own phone number. Do you know how many people told me I was stupid because I didn’t know my phone number?
When I talk about my early life fracturing me, I’m including the rampant sexual abuse. I was having intense extended sexual contact with children and adults from toddlerhood. That fucked up my personality.
It was watching my mother and sister fuck a series of men as my own live action instructional videos. Why won’t I have other lovers in the house? Because my mom did that.
I was constantly told I was the baby and I was belittled for my incompetencies, but I didn’t get to live with older more competent people. I was raised an only child. Who in the hell was I supposed to learn from? I was locked alone in houses or apartments or bedrooms or garages. My siblings were either grown or living in other, less abusive environments.
My brothers were not abused like I was. My sister… had it very different. More sexual abuse from our father but not the poverty, not the moving, not the rapes outside the family not the not the not the.
Being “appropriate” is a nightmare of a conscious choice for me that it isn’t for other people because I’m trying to make it up as an adult. I have no modeling at all from childhood to depend on. I didn’t know healthy people. I was never taught how to manage my feelings or the trauma that was happening until I was an adult and it was over and I could figure out how to tell a story about the past. No one sat me down and talked about what to do when you are mad other than “get even”.
When I say that my problems make me different from folks in the Tenderloin, one of the things that absolutely fucking wrecks me is that I was never taken away from my family for gross neglect nor abuse. Everyone from the top down acted like my life was just fucking fine. I couldn’t even get support in therapy for how bad it was because my mom was always there saying I was exaggerating for effect or lying.
Even when other parents would go to the school and say I was abused, no one gave a shit.
When I say that other people aren’t like me it is based on decades of experience trying to bond with people “Oh we are alike!” and having them listen for a little bit and nod with enthusiasm and I keep going and then they eventually shove me away energetically and physically and say with great force, “No. Not like that. We are not alike.”
This all leaves me with pervasive feelings that I am bad and I deserve punishment. I do not deserve to have a safe place to live. That’s for other, deserving people. Good people. I am bad. I smell. I am gross. I am not worth wanting. I am a burden.
Pot stinks. Which means that I stink. Which is highly triggering with regards to my experiences around being homeless and abused. I constantly feel like I deserve to be abused because I smell bad and I am gross and that is personally offensive to people. People don’t want to kiss a gross nasty pot smoker. I know.
I had some feelings so I was whining about them to someone. The person told me they would kinda like to rescue me but it was logistically impossible. I told them I wouldn’t let them rescue me anyway.
If I did need to be rescued from something I would rather walk in front of a train than ask for help.
It is more likely to work to solve my problems.
Asking for help just reveals that you are weak and a good target. I’m not that stupid any more.
Only going to see all these damn doctors is a form of trying to get help. Notice how well it usually goes? Usually it is debasing, insulting, and dehumanizing. Someone who has spent less than three hours with me feels very free to tell me that I really shouldn’t have another child because I don’t have the bandwidth. I should go to other professionals so they can tell me no.
It was a really good thing I got to turn around and go see a professional who has known me for years who said I could handle it and it would be wonderful.
When I go see professionals they tell me that my physical problems are because I don’t eat enough Fiber 1 cereal. Actually bitch, my digestion improves when I eat mostly protein and vegetables and fruit and almost entirely skip the cereals. But you are the wise professional and I’m just a dumb bitch. A dumb scary bitch who should be placed under a restraining order because I’m so dangerous.
Oh how I love asking for help.
I’m shocked I’m going to go submit to a high risk ob/gyn. But I have to. Or Noah won’t let me have the baby.
My whole life is about “submit to this authority or suffer”. So my recalcitrance means it is all my fault I suffer. If only I’d submit faster.
When I pull away and hide it is because I am scared. It is because I feel like I am bad. When folks act like yup, that’s where I should be and I should be there alone it feels like they agree that I should feel that way.
And once I lose the top cup off the pile of dishes I’m carrying, soon the whole load will come crashing down.