This morning as soon as I woke up I started thinking about how excited I was for tomorrow. Now, based on my post yesterday, you may already know I was working through some “worst case scenario” anxiety. The dog is fine in case you were wondering. A little chicken and rice, we all slept through the night, nothing to worry about. I think we will be fine. I woke up and started thinking about my day. Just within the past couple weeks have I really been able to settle into this job and the fact that it is so much more laid back than anything I have ever experienced in the past. I got paid today and can I tell you something else? I get more in my paycheck than I did in my last soul sucking job for the past three years. Things are looking up. I’m happy, I know my son is happy. Well as happy as you can be as an almost 16 year old trying to find themselves. I love many things about him, but I also have to say I love what he has taught me. He has always stayed true to who he is no matter who was judging. I got to thinking about my role in that. I rarely pat myself on the back. But what I do know is that what he loves I automatically love because I love him. It doesn’t matter if it isn’t what I thought he would love, in fact it’s better. He shows me things I never would’ve seen otherwise. I’m forever grateful.
The reason we are going where we are going on vacation is strictly because of him and his interests. I’ve tried to plan little getaways to see different shows or things he loved throughout his childhood. I want to create an experience he will remember. I want him to feel important. Really the reason I do this is because I never did. I get to relive my childhood through him. It’s extremely healing. Especially through these teenage years where in a parallel reality I was running away from home, getting screamed at daily, had come from a broken home. Constantly told how worthless I was. Self harming. Putting cigarettes out in my arm to feel something. On the flip side, my son is creating incredible pieces of art. He is able to express the things he loves with no judgement. He has somewhere safe to call home. Someone he knows that loves him. Just having that one person for support makes all the difference. I’m not trying to say I’m Mother Theresa, but I was forever told that I was the problem. This is proof it was my environment.
I never wanted to be a “bad kid”. I don’t really think anyone does. I think “bad kids” are crying out for help. They are in pain. Does it always come down to their parents? I don’t know. Not to continue to play the blame game, but for me it did. I’m lucky I made it out of it, I had enough self-preservation to say this wasn’t the life for me. But it was an expression of the pain I felt inside. It wasn’t just about the screaming and yelling, the fact that no one ever really told me “I love you” or hugged me (besides my grandma thank God for her or who knows where I’d be). It was the fact that it was never really about me. I had to learn to find something I liked in the things I didn’t. I had to learn to find comfort in things that made me uncomfortable. I also learned I wasn’t important and the only way to gain love was by abandoning myself. Among other unhealthy things I’ve had to unlearn.
As I was thinking about leaving for our vacation this morning, my son and I, I was thinking about my parents divorce. How after enduring years and years of fighting and screaming and raised fists, suddenly it was over. But even more than that no one, not even once, asked me how I was feeling. It continued to be about them. For years after my mom left, the only thing either of them could talk about when you were in their presence was how awful the other one was. Trying to get you to side with them. This went on and on and on. Even as an adult, even to this day, they hate eachother just the same as the day she left. It was never about us. It left a huge impact as a 12 year old adolescent.
I think about how my parents acted now, as a single mother of a 16 year old at 35. When I was 12 my dad was 52 and my mom was 43. Both older than me, yet still both acting like they were a child. Expecting me to not only stay quiet, but also sit there and listen for as long as needed. Especially for my mom, comfort her and be there as her shadow was what was expected. I was forced to quit the things I loved. I was lost. The forgotten child. And when I started to rebel, formed an eating disorder, self-harmed, no one even noticed. My dad had turned to the bottle, my mom had moved on to a new boyfriend. Traveling to see him every chance she got. I was so confused. I told my mom I thought maybe I was depressed. She yelled. Told me to toughen up. One time I drank a bottle of NyQuil and wondered what would happen as I layed in my bed hoping to not wake up. No one even noticed. I opened my eyes, finally hungry after the days of not eating. Quietly telling myself to get it together. No one said a thing, except maybe my mom telling me how worthless I was.
So these were my teenage years. 12,13,14,15,16. Horrible things happened to me during this time. I stayed with another family most of the time at one point. I numbed the pain a lot. Somehow still got good grades, didn’t even have to go to class to pass. Healing this version of myself has been the hardest task I’ve ever taken on. Even up until recently my mom would shame me for this time in my life. Put the blame on me. Now I’m starting to think its because she’s avoiding the reality that she failed me as a mom. Something I couldn’t imagine living with, nor could I imagine doing to my son.
So when we go on this magical trip tomorrow, planned meticulously with his interests in mind, it is not just for him but for that girl I just described. It’s taken a long time, decades, to heal her. She’s finally thriving. Writing. Creating. Doing what she was always meant to do. Be herself. Finally finding out who that is. Something that was stolen during those years.
The Girl Without A Face 