My Soulless Childhood
Wrote this last week one day.
I woke up this morning and memories flooded back to me. Taking me back to my childhood. Remembered the pain I was always in emotionally. The inherent knowledge that I was flawed and ashamed of my emotions. They had to be hidden, because I was awful. I was a 4, 5 year old in my house just wandering around feeling trapped. My mother was in the kitchen being all cheery as usual, and I skipped around in my own world. Always alone because it was the only safe place. My mother never took time to look at our emotions or try to see what was going on. So I stayed in my bed and stared at the cabin-like walls, with the tangy, sticky wood gloss, and wondered if life would ever be better. If this was all there was to it. That was a depressing thought. And I played with my dolls and my puzzles and my multiple backpacks and hats, finding comfort in them because objects never leave. They stay and are special and cute. I skip to the kitchen and tease my brother. I jump to my father and giggle to him, being his cute, sweet girl. My mother prepares us our favorite breakfast. We go out for our morning swim. Everything seems so good, so normal, that the nightmares in my head stop for now. When I am 8, I act strange in school, calling my favorite teacher Mommy. Totally disregarding any rules. They say I'm trouble, and I agree. I am angry and defensive. I don't understand why I feel this either, but all I know is I am mad. Could it be that I was mad at my adoptive mother for not being able to see me and my pain and say she understood? I felt alienated. My brother was the leader of the misbehavior at home, and my place was the shy, quiet goody good girl. Always trying to brighten my father up, and be interesting to my mother. I told her lots of stories, and seemed to be normal until after first grade. Then I began to have all these angry feelings and felt like a crazy person. Out of place and strange. I hid it with not caring, but deep down I cared so much that I had to stop because it was dangerous to show it. It was awful and embarrassing. I tried John Bradshaw's ghost chair work, and the three aged younger selves were not really if I could save them. My mother was in the chair and I accused her of beating me and not seeing me. She was clueless, and then too upset to listen so she sat shell-shocked. I yelled at her. She tried to brush it off.
I woke up this morning and memories flooded back to me. Taking me back to my childhood. Remembered the pain I was always in emotionally. The inherent knowledge that I was flawed and ashamed of my emotions. They had to be hidden, because I was awful. I was a 4, 5 year old in my house just wandering around feeling trapped. My mother was in the kitchen being all cheery as usual, and I skipped around in my own world. Always alone because it was the only safe place. My mother never took time to look at our emotions or try to see what was going on. So I stayed in my bed and stared at the cabin-like walls, with the tangy, sticky wood gloss, and wondered if life would ever be better. If this was all there was to it. That was a depressing thought. And I played with my dolls and my puzzles and my multiple backpacks and hats, finding comfort in them because objects never leave. They stay and are special and cute. I skip to the kitchen and tease my brother. I jump to my father and giggle to him, being his cute, sweet girl. My mother prepares us our favorite breakfast. We go out for our morning swim. Everything seems so good, so normal, that the nightmares in my head stop for now. When I am 8, I act strange in school, calling my favorite teacher Mommy. Totally disregarding any rules. They say I'm trouble, and I agree. I am angry and defensive. I don't understand why I feel this either, but all I know is I am mad. Could it be that I was mad at my adoptive mother for not being able to see me and my pain and say she understood? I felt alienated. My brother was the leader of the misbehavior at home, and my place was the shy, quiet goody good girl. Always trying to brighten my father up, and be interesting to my mother. I told her lots of stories, and seemed to be normal until after first grade. Then I began to have all these angry feelings and felt like a crazy person. Out of place and strange. I hid it with not caring, but deep down I cared so much that I had to stop because it was dangerous to show it. It was awful and embarrassing. I tried John Bradshaw's ghost chair work, and the three aged younger selves were not really if I could save them. My mother was in the chair and I accused her of beating me and not seeing me. She was clueless, and then too upset to listen so she sat shell-shocked. I yelled at her. She tried to brush it off.
I remembered her hitting us and pulling on our ears. We felt so unsafe in the first place. Now we definitely wouldn't open up to her. I felt flawed as a child. My anger was not allowed. I was addicted to things to make me happy, because my mom trained us that way. Happiness was found in toys and food, not in mutual trust and love. In the videos, she and my sister paraded my brother around for attention as a two year old, laughing and encouraging him when he threw stuff down. Obviously with frustration and feelings hidden inside. When he yelled they put a stop to his bad behavior. It was never looked at as perhaps an indicator of his hurt feelings. Babies and kids were robots or clowns to entertain you. My sister was raised that way, so she did not know better. I woke up from my nap and my mother grabbed me and started changing my diaper, as I stared up blankly. I was a fat, pudgy baby with a shock of thick, dark hair. My mother ignored me as she rattled on with my 2 year old brother. Then he started to squeeze me and I burst into tears. Maybe I was overwhelmed, maybe I felt uncomfortable. I don't know. But my mother pulled him off and I continued to stare away in my blank state.
I don't owe them anything. They want to keep pretending I am okay and family, but I am none. They think I cannot leave, that I need them for some reason. I've been managing without them in my life constantly for a year, and stopped fully with my adoptive sister. She doesn't say anything, so I see she's not lacking much either. It makes me happy to know I don't need them. Being family doesn't make you bound to them especially when they abuse your heart and soul. Their ignorance of emotions is killing me, and I got to leave. I am not hesitant because I don't rely on them at all.
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