It’s been a rough week. Maybe because I ran out of meds at the beginning? I wasn’t sure if they were helping but if this week has been any indication then I think they have been. Or it’s just been a shit week.
Without going into to many details, there’s been a change in my family. And honestly the level of fear and anxiety I feel right now is insane. And it’s got me thinking.
It’s really, really painful. The other day my friend joked about me being the black sheep in the family. I wouldn’t necessarily call myself that. But I’ve been feeling that. When I was younger, I went through a lot of fucked up stuff. My brothers didn’t. This led me to act out more I think. My thoughts even as a kid were always darker I just didn’t say them aloud. I didn’t have much help though. My parents didn’t know what was going on. And when they did, it was evident that they believed it to be my fault. Not ever asking me.
I remember when I was in 7th it 8th grade, I was on the school bus. It was right before Christmas. This kid on the bus came up behind me as I was putting up my window and began rubbing his naked… you know, on me. I froze. It hadn’t been the first time a boy had touched me without consent. No that started even younger, when I was a in elementary school by a family member. I was so distraught about the situation. One because I believed it was wrong, but also because I wanted attention, love and affection. That situation wasn’t even close to any of that. But I was 11.
I went home that day, writing in my journal what happened. A family member found my journal and consequently. I was spanked, arms out, then made to stand in a corner while my journal was read to me. I was then hauled to school, the boy was suspended. My parents were furious and I was wasn’t allowed to ride the bus for the rest of the year. In that moment, I made the conscious decision not to trust my parents, not to ask for their help for anything. And to never open up again. I’d take the affection I was given from boys, because at least it didn’t hurt. But I still longed for the affection from my parents. Aches for it. I was constantly haunted by the fear of them dying and leaving me. But so angry when they hit me. But so desperately wanting their love and affection even after they hit me. It’s fucked. I remember waiting and hoping they’d not be angry with me anymore, even though they hurt me.
My parents are different people now. They’ve grown and become better people. I don’t know if they’ll ever apologize for what they did, but it’s not like I’m waiting for an apology either. They didn’t help me much with any of the things that hurt me. The things I didn’t understand. But they made sure I never went without, supported my theatre and singing. And challenged me in school. So, I became successful in the things that mattered to them. Or I tried. But at some point I just realized I couldn’t come to them broken.
As I said, they’re different now. And as my brothers go through challenging times, they are the most supportive loving versions of them that I’ve ever seen. And I’m grateful. But I can’t help the sick feeling I get when I see them supporting my brothers through their stuff, knowing I never had that. Part of me is jealous. Part of me is angry. Part of me is so fucking bitter. Another part of me is deeply lonely.
My friends became my support system. But my friends are also a little batshit. And I love them for it. But as an adult now, it’s different. And life feels more sad. Because I have taught myself from a young age to be fiercely independent. To keep all family at an arms length. So if they hurt me it wouldn’t hurt too much. And if they died it wouldn’t crush me. But I am still crushed. Watching my parents champion my brothers, wondering why they couldn’t be that for me.
Fucked up sexual abuse as a child really changed the course of my life. But no one in my family talks about it. I was told that the person who did it isn’t in a place to have such a direct conversation. That essentially I’d have to move on. But how do you move on from a weight that sits on your chest that feels like a million pounds? From a fear that it will happen again to another child? I feel sick. I’ve cried so much about it the last few days. And I’ve distanced myself from my family. I don’t want to be like that. But it doesn’t feel safe. And I’m tired. I’m so so tired.
And I’m alone. Willingly and not so willingly Im alone. Because I can’t turn back the time. I can’t ask them to give me the love and support I always needed. I somehow have to create it for myself, even while watching everyone from the sidelines receive the care and support they need, while the hole in my heart grows just a little bit bigger.