When I was around four, I used to sleep with my father in his room [my parents stopped sleeping together... I'm not really sure, because I can never remember it actually happening]. I can't remember the specific reason. I know I was afraid of the dark, and I know I had a very active imagination that would turn the lamest of scary villains into pernicious demons bent upon, I suppose, my destruction. Maybe I knew my father liked it, and I didn't think I could tell him otherwise.
Regardless, he had a rather large king-size bed. As a child, it seemed colossal. While this could make for interesting pillow fights [which my father hit hard in and always seemed rather intent upon winning], it made getting out of it hell if the person with you was a light sleeper. I was acutely aware of this threat, so I would spend what seemed forever, slowly inching off the bed in an attempt to get out and to the bathroom without waking my father. My father was wrathful about many things, but being woken up made him incredibly angry, and I continued to be surreptitious any time I left my room once he was sleeping until college. At any rate, being a young person still naive, I told my mother or mentioned it in one way or another. She, in turn, told my father, who was at once quite hurt, disgusted, and furious. "Am I some kind of ogre who rampages through the house, preventing you from even going to the restroom?" It was disastrous. And that's when I learned not to tell my mother anything, not to standup to/criticize my father, and that it was best if I never expressed my needs or the truth.
To him, anyway. I have difficult time truly recalling my childhood, but I know I was relatively spoiled. I got most toys/video games I wanted [I was rather materialistic to the point of excess until I realized it only felt empty, swinging me in the opposite direction; it was probably a good investment], I was an incredibly picky eater [so my mom would fix something specific for me instead of just making dinner for everyone; I never helped], I was sarcastic towards my sister, I didn't do any chores except, occasionally, taking out the trash throughout the house, etc. My sister and I walked all over my mother; I can't say, precisely, how much of her serving me was me not respecting her or me hating myself to the point where I wouldn't feed myself or do anything for myself so she felt she had little choice but to [if she didn't fix me anything, I was generally ok with not eating]. Neither of my parents established clear boundaries [too permissive v. too authoritarian and carpicious], neither of my parents established anything like a mutually respecting relationship, and neither of my parents made me feel that I was safe with them or that I could trust them.
I write this because I want to try and explain what it was like for me, growing up. To you, to myself, to my future selves. I want to try and elaborate upon the fear, the paranoia, the worthlessness. I want to find some insight into my self, to explain the problems I encounter today. Why do I have such a hard time connecting to people who haven't experienced significant pain? Why am I so afraid of the anger and opinions of others? Why am I never satisfied, can never see the good for staring holes through the bad? I want to answer these questions, and the 80% of my life under my family's roof seems so ripe for such insight.
But I can't. Not entirely. Not satisfactorily. Not without making it sound so... small. That story? About me being afraid to go to the bathroom? That, to me, is symbolic of my entire relationship with my father. I learned from a very, very young age that I had the capability to seriously hurt and to do serious wrong by simply being. I learned that I needed to be what he wanted me to be. To spin all of my feelings to assuage him. To read his face and features to try and tell if now was a good time to ask for that essential thing or permission that my mother could not grant and so I had no other choice. And I was scared, we all were. We walked on eggshells when he was home. We never talked, as a family; any criticism of him was invariably personal, was invariably my mother being a stubborn bitch and "always getting her way." I cannot explain the fear. I cannot explain how any small mistake was liable to provoke immense wrath.
But I was also spoiled! I had many nice things [primarily because my grandfather doted on us]. It wasn't... immense, but it was still pretty spoiled. My mother practically waited on me. I even remember risking my father's ire to play my online computer game which would tie up our old dialup modem so he'd know when he couldn't call home. And I can't make it fit together. I am abused and resilient. I am cowardly and selfish. I was worse off than I can say. I was better off than I know. I was hurt. I hurt. It's a war narrative by another name.
I'm learning to trust my mother. But I still don't. [She still cannot keep any secrets to herself]. I'm learning to not fear my father. But I still do. [I can run from him, but I can also hear the liquor over the phone; I can not even mention my transition for fear that he will deny me yet again]. I'm learning to allow myself faults. But I still self-hate. [There's so much I need to do and so much more I need to do better]. I'm learning to be more responsible for myself. But I still let my clothes pile up until my mother finally breaks to wash them. [Do I wash them sooner just to stop her? I will wash them, eventually, when the need seems great enough. But she always moves on mother time which is three steps faster than mine].
These things haunt me. And in retelling them, I see "Oh, so that is why I think of myself as capable of causing so much hurt: my father's wounded voice coated with so much anger." I see "Oh, so that is why I cannot trust my mother: she would bring his wrath upon me, for even as my advocate she was merely a catalyst for more acrimony." I see what I cannot explain. I see in the words of others "My father used to get angry about the little things, furious if a cabinet door was open" and I say YES YES that is what it is those are the words you know the fear you know it! But we only know parts. I know. But my knowing is years too late to be a thing of truth. Now I look at ripples. Now I stumble to the bathroom, for I do not care enough to tread carefully. But I don't dare call my father after 8. For he may be sleeping [or in the company of his liquid friends], and he so hates to be awoken.
Regardless, he had a rather large king-size bed. As a child, it seemed colossal. While this could make for interesting pillow fights [which my father hit hard in and always seemed rather intent upon winning], it made getting out of it hell if the person with you was a light sleeper. I was acutely aware of this threat, so I would spend what seemed forever, slowly inching off the bed in an attempt to get out and to the bathroom without waking my father. My father was wrathful about many things, but being woken up made him incredibly angry, and I continued to be surreptitious any time I left my room once he was sleeping until college. At any rate, being a young person still naive, I told my mother or mentioned it in one way or another. She, in turn, told my father, who was at once quite hurt, disgusted, and furious. "Am I some kind of ogre who rampages through the house, preventing you from even going to the restroom?" It was disastrous. And that's when I learned not to tell my mother anything, not to standup to/criticize my father, and that it was best if I never expressed my needs or the truth.
To him, anyway. I have difficult time truly recalling my childhood, but I know I was relatively spoiled. I got most toys/video games I wanted [I was rather materialistic to the point of excess until I realized it only felt empty, swinging me in the opposite direction; it was probably a good investment], I was an incredibly picky eater [so my mom would fix something specific for me instead of just making dinner for everyone; I never helped], I was sarcastic towards my sister, I didn't do any chores except, occasionally, taking out the trash throughout the house, etc. My sister and I walked all over my mother; I can't say, precisely, how much of her serving me was me not respecting her or me hating myself to the point where I wouldn't feed myself or do anything for myself so she felt she had little choice but to [if she didn't fix me anything, I was generally ok with not eating]. Neither of my parents established clear boundaries [too permissive v. too authoritarian and carpicious], neither of my parents established anything like a mutually respecting relationship, and neither of my parents made me feel that I was safe with them or that I could trust them.
I write this because I want to try and explain what it was like for me, growing up. To you, to myself, to my future selves. I want to try and elaborate upon the fear, the paranoia, the worthlessness. I want to find some insight into my self, to explain the problems I encounter today. Why do I have such a hard time connecting to people who haven't experienced significant pain? Why am I so afraid of the anger and opinions of others? Why am I never satisfied, can never see the good for staring holes through the bad? I want to answer these questions, and the 80% of my life under my family's roof seems so ripe for such insight.
But I can't. Not entirely. Not satisfactorily. Not without making it sound so... small. That story? About me being afraid to go to the bathroom? That, to me, is symbolic of my entire relationship with my father. I learned from a very, very young age that I had the capability to seriously hurt and to do serious wrong by simply being. I learned that I needed to be what he wanted me to be. To spin all of my feelings to assuage him. To read his face and features to try and tell if now was a good time to ask for that essential thing or permission that my mother could not grant and so I had no other choice. And I was scared, we all were. We walked on eggshells when he was home. We never talked, as a family; any criticism of him was invariably personal, was invariably my mother being a stubborn bitch and "always getting her way." I cannot explain the fear. I cannot explain how any small mistake was liable to provoke immense wrath.
But I was also spoiled! I had many nice things [primarily because my grandfather doted on us]. It wasn't... immense, but it was still pretty spoiled. My mother practically waited on me. I even remember risking my father's ire to play my online computer game which would tie up our old dialup modem so he'd know when he couldn't call home. And I can't make it fit together. I am abused and resilient. I am cowardly and selfish. I was worse off than I can say. I was better off than I know. I was hurt. I hurt. It's a war narrative by another name.
I'm learning to trust my mother. But I still don't. [She still cannot keep any secrets to herself]. I'm learning to not fear my father. But I still do. [I can run from him, but I can also hear the liquor over the phone; I can not even mention my transition for fear that he will deny me yet again]. I'm learning to allow myself faults. But I still self-hate. [There's so much I need to do and so much more I need to do better]. I'm learning to be more responsible for myself. But I still let my clothes pile up until my mother finally breaks to wash them. [Do I wash them sooner just to stop her? I will wash them, eventually, when the need seems great enough. But she always moves on mother time which is three steps faster than mine].
These things haunt me. And in retelling them, I see "Oh, so that is why I think of myself as capable of causing so much hurt: my father's wounded voice coated with so much anger." I see "Oh, so that is why I cannot trust my mother: she would bring his wrath upon me, for even as my advocate she was merely a catalyst for more acrimony." I see what I cannot explain. I see in the words of others "My father used to get angry about the little things, furious if a cabinet door was open" and I say YES YES that is what it is those are the words you know the fear you know it! But we only know parts. I know. But my knowing is years too late to be a thing of truth. Now I look at ripples. Now I stumble to the bathroom, for I do not care enough to tread carefully. But I don't dare call my father after 8. For he may be sleeping [or in the company of his liquid friends], and he so hates to be awoken.
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