Relief in A Childhood Lost

What a relief it is to believe that it’s all just me.
If it’s me, then it can be fixed!
The part of me that wants the problem to be me is desperate. It wants there to be a problem with me because that’s the best solution. It believes that if the problem is the world, then my life is unbearable.
It’s unbearable loneliness. But if the problem is me, I can be fixed and won’t be lonely anymore.
It’s unbearable shame. But if the problem is me, then I can repent and work hard to repay my shameful acts.
It’s unbearable sadness. Some of the sadness is comforting- it’s a reprieve from the loneliness. But if I am only just depressed, there are things to help that, too.
And if the problem is not me? Well, then the problem is so overwhelming, complicated and massive that any hope is futility.
What hope of happiness or fulfillment would I have?

All this consequential ism. This part is very concerned with consequences. I can see this part is deeply connected with the problem at hand- and it’s protector is probably the Distracter part. I haven’t been able to focus for weeks.
How I love to be busy and productive when the consequences are too horrid to contemplate!
Makes complete sense to me.

Analyzing the parts isn’t as useful as it might sound, though. Still, I wonder where this consequentialist part originated? Dad is the answer I received. There were always consequences for any sort of upset to dad. Sneering; yes, this part really hates dad.
I don’t blame her.
Dad never cared about me, and he was never afraid to remind me of that. He once asked me how I’d like to go to a different, private, school. I was ecstatic about it. I hated my school. “Too bad,” he said, watching my exuberant smile fade away with some kind of sick pleasure. “We can’t afford to send you after that Bill passed.” I stared at him in disbelief. Every 3 years, my parents bought themselves a Brand New vehicle. Regardless of whether it was needed (it never was).
I remember being left on the school grounds until dark- this was back in the day when no one had to keep track of every kid- often after dark, before my dad pulled in to pick me up. Obviously, way before cell phones, too.
I would sit on the radiant heaters by the windows, stare out of the second-floor window in order to see the school drive, or walk all the way to the high school and wait there. The only things available were what I had in my locker. Everything else was battened down. I was loathe to get locked outside the school, as the janitor would lock all the doors, and it would get hella cold outside, although that did happen. Sometimes an errant teacher would tell me to wait outside, and callously lock the door behind me.
Once, when I was sitting on a bench outside in the cold, a boy in my class came up and offered me a joint. I remember thinking; why in the hell is he offering that to me? He was not a nice kid; and in fact often made fun of me in class. It was very strange to me that he’d think I would want anything to do with him.
I don’t remember my dad ever saying sorry he forgot about me. Actually, I’m surprised he didn’t scold me about not reminding him, but he probably felt too embarrassed. He always got home about 5pm, you see, and to be that late in picking me up, he would have had to have gotten home, eaten dinner, and been reminded by someone hours later that his daughter wasn’t home.
And he never acknowledged that. Ever. To acknowledge how much he didn’t care about me would be to say that cared what I thought, knew or didn’t know. He was utterly disinterested in me.
It would have been unbearable to know that, as a child. I had to believe that I was always and forever, the problem.