The Unwanted

When I was 15 or 16, my stepmother told me quite casually that I was unwanted.

To be precise, her words were,”Your mother had you to save the marriage.”

I was born. And god help me, I wasn’t born male. If I had been born male, maybe my father would have wanted me.

Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have let her treat me like she did.

Maybe he would have cared.

My stepmother’s facebook messages go on and on about how I was a burden, how weird I was, how they occasionally had to spend money on me.

Good to know that what I had intuited was right all along.

But that vindication doesn’t really feel good. Not really.

How do people do it? Move past a broken childhood, knowing that the only help and support they can get in life is from a romantic partner? That if your parents are sh1t, you’re straight out of luck for platonic warmth and love. True unconditional love.

In my life situation, children to love and support, to give what I wasn’t given, isn’t an option. My husband sees children in terms of cost. That’s reasonable, but it just resonates with my past. It’s not about love, it’s not about legacy, it’s not about giving back to the world by raising healthy, vibrant children. It’s all about money.

It’s not even that we couldn’t afford them. We make a more than healthy income. And I’m not dead-set on wanting kids, either. I’d just like to know the option is available. A door left cracked, rather than slammed shut.

I’m left to deal with the fallout of my life alone. My mother is in serious denial that I ever suffered. My father, the same, though his is a nastier, self-suited denial. My stepmother? Jesus loves her, so how could she have done anything wrong.

How do I function? How can I see past the fact that the basic pillars of my life were broken or even non-existent from the second I was conceived? I have to lift myself up. And for a while, I had a serious drive to do so and I did. Pulling myself out of poverty and marrying someone I don’t really deserve, those are things I can say I did for myself, by myself.

I wonder if most of my life I have pushed these feelings away, like a slingshot pulled back at maximum effort. But now in my thirties, it’s hit me at full force. I’m finally putting it all into words. For what good it does. My words, like myself, have never been valued much.

I don’t have the strength to lift myself up anymore. But there’s no one to carry me.

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