I’ve been thinking about writing for the past few days, which is almost as good as actually writing. Almost. If I’m being honest, I’m struggling again. Maybe, when I’m struggling the most internally is when I feel the biggest pull to write. To try to make sense of the deep sadness I feel inside now that I’m no longer numbing my pain. I have nowhere to run, so for days I’ll sleep too much or lie awake in the early hours of the morning. Thoughts of the past popping up in no specific order. How did I get here? I really didn’t have good parents, huh? I’m so incredibly alone. No one would notice if I was gone. If it weren’t for my son I’d end it all. How could a mother ignore her daughter for almost a year? Who would I be if I had any encouragement from my parents? I’m not mad they moved away and decided to live their lives instead of putting me in the top 5 of priorities, but I am mad at how the abandonment has been handled. Projected onto me as if I’m responsible for the lack of relationship. This is on both ends, both mom and dad. Random memories of an older guy telling me I was “too good for this life” when I was 16 and ran away. I was staying with a not so Brady Bunch type family. The fact that no one I knew from the first 33 years of my life calls me to check up on me and truly wants to know. Or calls me up for just that reason. To see how I am. Anyone that reaches out just calls to talk about themselves. Just that knowledge alone makes me want to disappear forever. How did I end up here? Where did I go wrong?
The whole reason I was a people pleaser (until my mental breakdown) was to avoid the inevitable as much as possible – to avoid people leaving me. If I gave them all of me, gave everything I had, all my energy. My time. My money. My listening ear, support, opinions, interests, etc. If I gave that all up could I keep them? Would I finally not feel such deep loneliness? Obviously this is how I was taught to love, this is the way my mother expected me to act towards her. It’s been almost a year since we’ve talked at all. Except for one time where she told me that my anger was legendary. I suppose the repressed rage I feel inside is something tangible, something to speak of. She’s not wrong. I am incredibly angry at how miserably her and my father failed me. Maybe one day I’ll forgive completely. But as a mother myself I’m in disbelief at the way I was treated by my supposed family.
Then we have my father. I just talked to him last night. A Vietnam veteran, a firefighter. Someone who as he puts it, “has been serving his community his whole life.” And he has. I won’t take that away from him. But I’m also not allowed to acknowledge his alcoholism. From when I was little, just knowing I had to tip toe around the house when he came home. To the screaming matches that felt as though they occurred daily. No one ever came to check on me after they died down. I would hide away in my bedroom, all alone. In my house growing up, it was every man for himself. And then as a teenager, when I started to rebel, when I needed love the most, where was my dad? At the local bar. Every day, never missing day drinking lunch hour. If I needed a ride home I was out of luck. I had to have teachers, even the principal bring me home out of pity when my dad lived not more than 2 miles from the school and was out of work on disability. I learned quickly, knowing there was no other choice, that I had to survive on my own. I didnt have his support. I couldn’t ask him for help. If I did, there would be an excuse. “The cable guy is coming”, “I’m getting the driveway paved today”, “Someone needs to look at the furnace.” My friends and I made it into a joke. The deep pain of rejection I felt from him has stayed with me my whole life. Until now.
As I emotionally detach and heal from my parents there are many things that happen. I think one of those things is allowing myself to feel the absolute grief I’ve been running from my entire life. This grief comes in phases. In waves. Once every few months, maybe after something else triggers me. An old wound is brought up again and over the past few years I’ve learned how to dig deeper to get to the root of it. It’s a lot of painful work. And I’m still wondering whether or not it’s worth it.
This past weekend I layed in bed all of Saturday and most of Sunday. I got up to let my son know I’d be there if he needed me. I leaned into my deep depression. I have no help, no support, no family I can call. My son’s father isn’t around. Repeating the cycle. It’s just me, and I’m telling myself to make it until he graduates at least. Sometimes I feel like I can barely breathe. Sometimes I wonder whether I want to. But I’ve been in this place before, I’ll ride out this wave. Maybe next week I’ll feel on top of the world. Maybe one day I’ll even find peace.
The Girl Without A Face 