Never On Schedule But Always On Time... in Chapter 8 : Time to Heal

So…

I’ve struggled with how I feel about myself and how others feel about me my entire life. I already had trouble with thinking of myself as being worthy of love because of how I was brought up, I wasn’t really made anything of, passed from pillar to post as a child. I spent most of my childhood feeling that I was a burden to those who were lumped with looking after me. My parents never really told me they were proud of me. I was often harshly punished for things that a normal parent would attribute to being normal child development and learning. Knocking a glass over at the table would have me scolded and isolated. Imprisoned for the night in my bedroom, just me and the silence. Not a particularly effective method of teaching a 6 year old who needed glasses about spatial awareness. If I refused to eat a meal - or even a part of it - it would be force fed to me whether it was just us or in front of the entire family. No amount of crying, screaming, heaving or fighting back from a five year old can beat the brute force of a grown adult. I still have issues with certain food. Maybe it was the root cause of my history with eating disorders? Who knows? Being raped only made my underlying issues worse. Being raped by my fiance reinforced a belief that people who “care” and “love” me are ultimately going to do whatever they can to hurt me. Logical? No. You can see why my brain thinks that way though by now? Being raped cemented in my mind that I must be unlovable because surely if someone truly loves you, whatever the context of that love is, then they’ll want the best for you, they’ll want to raise you up on a pedastal, not crush you. Being raped leaves you feeling so many different things; maybe that’s what’s SO overwhelming about it? Whatever little cracks you’re already hiding beneath the surface will become gaping craters having been blown apart by the cataclysmic trauma that’s been forced on to you. It will lead you back to the sanctuary of all your habits, it will encourage you to punish yourself; I’ve managed so far not to hurt myself the way that I used to, but the urges are there. I’m aware that I’m in the middle of an ED relapse, I’m just not sure I want to stop it, I don’t think I want help for it this time, I know it will pass and so maybe I should just stand back for those who do actually want help. IF it becomes a noticeable, spiraling issue  then maybe, but for now, no. I need to have control over something, and right now, this is all I have. My mother, who fails to acknowledge previous diagnosis, told me that I’m “finally to get some shape” yesterday, of course she sees this as a compliment, but I know it’s just something amongst the pick n mix of my flaws for her to pick at, oh well, let her pick. The longer she picks at me, the safer my kids are from her own special brand of piss, vinegar and venom. What she fails to realize is that I’m aware of ALL my flaws, more than fucking aware. I’ve carved them out of my own flesh for over 15 years. I know my humour and wit come from a dark place within that’s filled with pain and despair, I know it’s a coping mechanism, it’s probably the healthiest one I have, the only one that no-one wants to take away from me. There’s no stigma atttached to it because no-one realises what a fucking mess I am inside. I know I’m not perfect, I don’t want to fit in, I never have. I want to be me, I want to be my “ideal self”. Is it a realistic goal? Probably not, but it’s the only shred of hope I have left. I don’t fit in to the cookie-cutter image of average. I’m “too tall”, my feet are “too big” and I have “so much hair”. I’m the Big Bad Wolf in a world of Little Red Riding Hoods, the only difference in this grim tale is that I want Little Red Riding Hood to fuck off and leave me be.  

I’m not sure why people want me to open up to them, I always wind up feeling like they’re not actually that interested but maybe I’m just being paranoid? Maybe they do want to help? Maybe they’re just nosey? Maybe I’m just too much? Probably. I’m strong willed and over opinionated. I don’t like to “think inside the box” let alone live inside it. Fuck, I’m not even sure where the box is. I can count on one hand the amount of people that have ever truly wanted to help me and actually stuck in. In our family needing help fell in to the same category as emotions; fine for everyone else, but not for us, not for me. Vulnerability and emotions were something to be punished for, to be ridiculed. Pride and happiness were instant grounds for humiliation and ridicule, whilst despair and upset were treated with disgust as thought they were contagious. Frustration would be met with punishment, it didn’t matter how I felt, what mattered was how I was making others feel.There was never any attempt to help or understand. Once my parents remarried clear lines were drawn and I was no longer a front runner for their attention or affection, I was no longer a priority. At first I tried to compete with my step-parents but there was no competition, my step-parents weren’t interested in me, neither were my parents. Parenting had become an obligation that they were legally bound to, being a spouse had become a matter of self-preservation. Being a parent to an already troubled child afforded them very little whilst being a spouse brought extra incomes in to the relative households. As my parents affections and attentions were weaned from me I started to rebel and before we knew where we were I was being “sent” to my father so that he could take his “turn to deal with her [me]”. My mother was, and remains indifferent to my feelings and emotions, it doesn’t matter what I think, she doesn’t want better for me than she had, she wants me to experience the same levels of hardships that she did BECAUSE she did. Sending me to my father freed up her life for her new husband, and began a long 4 years of misery for mine. I was little more than a prisoner, ordered to behave in a certain way, dress a certain way, be a certain way. I was expected to adhere to the rules.  The more miserable I became the more I spiraled in to self destructive rebellion. I frequently ran away and when it all bubbled to the top and emotions spilled over, I would be dismissed, belittled and isolated. To my father and his wife I was simply attention seeking and looking to weasel my way out of trouble. They didn’t care about how I was feeling either. What mattered to them was how I was making them look, I was ruining the image of a happy family blended oh-so-carefully together. The damaged child from HIS first marriage was smudging the picture that they were busy painting to the world around them. They would try to break me, they would fail. Ultimately I was left scarred, physically and emotionally.

The first time I dragged a blade across my wrist I was 12. The blood flowed freely down my arm and relief washed over me. Bullying was taking a toll, my home life was shit and my parents were arguing over who should have me; neither of them really wanted to deal with me. I discovered fairly quickly that I’m not prone to physical scarring and so it fast became a way to deal with my emotions. It’s pretty easy to hide when your family don’t give a shit, not that they gave a shit when they found out. Over the years I found various ways to hurt myself, to punish myself. Even to this day the person I lash out at most is myself. I’ve only just started to become angry about being raped. I’ve spent years feeling torn and broken about what happened, and why shouldn’t I? Yes I’m angry at him, I’m angry that he thought so little of me to do it to me, I’m angry that he would do it to anyone. I’m also angry at myself, I’m angry that I never realized that it was all too good to be true. I’m angry that I didn’t leave the first time. I’m angry at myself for blaming myself for something that he chose to do. I’m angry at myself for not being angrier at him than I am. Where he’s concerned I’m more sad than anything because I really did love him. I’ve tried to be honest about it all but it’s so hard to put in to actual spoken words. I’m frightened of what people will think, of how they will react, how they will feel. Would they even believe me? I want to scream, cry, punch walls and break shit but I find it hard to express anything at all because it just hurts so much to have been betrayed and violated in such a in intimate and lasting way. 

It all needs to change. I need to express this stuff out loud, I need healthier coping mechanisms than turning on myself. 

I need to accept that I am a work in progress, and that should be rewarded, not punished.

Last updated February 05, 2018