I’ve been meaning to do a more fully fleshed-out post on one of the people in my life who’s had the largest effect it. Of course, speaking about her means also speaking about others as well.
I’m sure anyone that comes across this blog will be completely surprised to know that I have problems interacting with women who completely immerse themselves in their feminine side. /s
This was partially triggered by my upbringing, and the loving care of the woman who oversaw eight years of my childhood: my stepmother.
Going back, I’m about eight years old. This is maybe a year or two after I stopped being “babysat” by the Meyers, the Pentecostal spoil-the-rod types. My mother is still attempting to care for me and her and is still doing a very poor job. My father takes custody of me then, and introduces me to his new wife.
Suzanne was tall, blonde, blue eyed, and in her early twenties. Roughly 11 years my father’s junior. She loved god and men in uniforms and makeup and partying!1! And now she had reluctantly accepted helping to raise her new husband’s daughter.
Oh, she tried at first. I’ll give her that. Her anger at first was mainly at my being a child completely unprepared to live in a structured environment. But as time went by, Suzanne began to see I did not care about the things she thought a girl-child should care about. And that was way, way worse.
The bursts of anger began. Prolonged screaming fits, where I would stand before her absolutely still, staring at the floor, going away inside while she told me what a bad, selfish person I was. A spineless worm for not screaming back. When I went through puberty and did not instantly become addicted to hair, nails, clothes, shoes, and omgboys, and continued to read books quietly in my room and play in the woods out back, it got real.
In addition to being a bad, selfish person, I was told I’d never have a boyfriend or a relationship. In middle school she became convinced I was gay and took me out of the only class I shared with my only friend. She repeatedly told me that I was just renting a room at their house, how loved and welcomed I felt.
It escalated. It always does. I was dragged down the hallway by my hair. Lamps and other convenient objects at hand were thrown at me. I was forced to humiliate myself by pulling down my pants and standing at the end of the driveway while the neighbors were outside. Dinnertime, which should be sacred, never was. I would sit quietly at the table with my food cold, head bowed, while she screamed and dumped drinks on my head.
Her rages were sudden and severe, and I never knew when they would come. I walked on eggshells whenever I was in the house. When I came back to the house from school every day I took upwards of twenty minutes to walk up a 15 foot driveway, slowly creeping, dread building awfully in my stomach at being confronted at whatever outrage she had discovered while I was away.
I was always afraid. Very soon I didn’t see her as a person anymore – just an awful rage machine that could fly off the handle for any reason.
And gee, they couldn’t understand why I always looked forward to going to my mother’s on the weekend. My mother is a failure in most things, but giving me unconditional love wasn’t one of them. It didn’t matter to her that I loved the outdoors and comic books, not makeup and pink clothing. But she could never get her shiz together enough to support herself and me, to take me out of that awful place. But even now, I would be happy to live in tatters living on macaroni, as long I wasn’t physically, verbally, and emotionally torn down on a daily basis. No nice clothes, houses, and food in the world would make that worthwhile. My father never understood that and he still doesn’t.
And where was he during this? Oh, just watching. He only cared that his pretty, blonde young wife was happy, and if his weird child from his first marriage was pissing her off, she could deal with it as she liked. He was doing the bare minimum of feeding and clothing me, and assisting my emotional and personal development was beyond the minimum he was required to do. It really wasn’t anyone’s concern.
The only reason I have become as functional and successful as I have in life was due to my own initiative and hard work. I don’t have parents. I don’t have people that care about and support me. Or, at least in the case of my mother, cares but is incapable of doing or unwilling to do anything to ensure it. I don’t have support, I have people to support. But the pillar of my dependability continues to crumble every day, as I find I can give less and less, diverting all inner resources to the struggle to function, and just barely at that. There is no one and nothing for me to fall back on. There is no safety and there is no comfort. There is only the void of my loneliness.
Maybe that’s why I have problems relating to people who were given love and support from people who really cared. I don’t really receive support even now – trying to talk about the troubles I have just makes the few people around me feel uncomfortable.
This is why, in the end, I really just need to find a psychiatrist. Someone who I can pay to listen to my sadness. That, and to blog and to vent online to no one. These words travel into the ether of the internet, unread by none but me, but who knows. Even the hope that someone might eventually read these words buoys my spirit a little.