Please forgive the verbosity, I feel the need to flesh out so much of my story because people might be interested, because it's cathartic, and mainly because I believe the things I'm struggling with now are deeply rooted in where I've been.
Why divulge my life story to the Internet?
I have a close friend, a mentor, a support group, and soon a counselor as well, so why post my struggles to the Internet? I can come here and post about what I've been going through recently, I can mull over my thoughts and sum up an idea in a succinct statement, I can get feedback from others who will call me out if I'm not being real about my situation, and also because the Internet is always here. While my supports become busy and unavailable the Net is always here for me to vent my frustrations and I can know that it was shared with someone and I didn't go unheard. Moreover my purpose in sharing is to connect with others, maybe someone who has been through or is currently going through a similar situation, and in seeing my struggle and pain can feel themselves a little less alone, can know they have a voice and share it here with someone who has been through the same. It can give purpose to my pain in lightening the pain of others who encounter similar situations in their lives, it can encourage someone who might not be as far along in their struggle as I am in mine now knowing that someone else has made it further toward the light and in that, they can too. So by all means call me out where you think I'm being lax in my fight or if something sounds funny as if I'm not being honest and join in if you've been in or are in a similar situation, don't be afraid to ask questions and I welcome all constructive feedback.
A note before I begin: The following contains accounts of child abuse, mainly emotional but some light physical abuse as well, for those people who have issues with triggers.
The early years.
My father ended his life in 1988, I was three years old. I remember thrashing about in bed as a little boy screaming and beating my fists into my face and chest, I would bite the wooden edging of my bed dragging my teeth into it or stabbing a pencil deep into the grain. I associate this with being fatherless, I had an anger or rage. I would flip out when a book of mine had its page torn - maybe I picked up my rage and perfectionism from my mother, I don't know, but I am familiar with a very deep seated rage that dissipates early in my years and I don't see rise up again until much later.
I grew up with my mom and my grandmother. I lived with my mom and would see my grandmother often. Living in Boston I would spend many weekends over at her house where she kept a day care. It was neat to be around the little kids and I would help out with whatever I could. I remember using a step-up to be able to see over the sink so I could help with the dishes. As far back as my earliest memories, around five years old, my mother was always very protective of me, keeping me by her side, hoarding me and my time. Even out in stores I was seldom ever allowed to leave her side to go look at something or browse around, I always had to watch her and her purse, even into my teens. From a young age my mother began confiding in me, she treated me as an adult in that regard having me as her confidant. She would tell me things she disapproved of about my grandmother often, my grandmother would do the same, entrusting me with her secrets. I remember once trying to bring the two together like a scene out of the film "The Parent Trap", going to each of the two with the line: "Don't tell her I told you but she said such and such" hoping they would build a stronger bond between themselves and stop with the critiques. I had no male presence in my life, I grew up feeling more comfortable around older women than kids my age.
The three of us moved back to Arizona when I was eight, I say back because I was born in AZ and left soon after my father died, I assume my mom wanted to rid herself of the situation and its memory and start fresh though I don't really know why we moved to Boston other than to know my mother grew up there. My mother's reign on my life started to tighten and around the age of eight is when I first recall my mother's temper - she started to get mad, very mad and out of nowhere.
The crazy years.
My mother could be furious at the drop of a hat, I'd be in my room lost in my own world of fantasy friends, living a fantasy social life probably playing an eight-player board game by myself (I always won) when I'd hear my mother's screams, "Get in here RIGHT NOW!" once I dutifully arrived I would be greeted with "What the f*** is this s***?" pointing to the kitchen sink. Apparently I had left crumbs on the kitchen sponge, or maybe the sponge was left the wrong side up, possibly the sponge was not wrung out fully or maybe even had some soap left in it - whatever the case I was, without failure, grounded while having managed to "Ruin [my] weekend", "Thanks a f***ing lot!" Sometimes there was no making out what I was grounded for, my mother was angry and I was available and that was that. My mother never hit me but she was physically abusive in other ways, slapping or smacking me. She would press her index finger into my forehead and speaking so close and furiously she would be spitting on me. She would pinch my arm and twist it to get me walk with her or bend my fingers back. She would step up right on my toes and push me back. My mother was a petite woman, thin and short, she was beautiful with sleek long dark hair, but when she got angry there arose within her a demon banshee.
Over the years the beratings grew in frequency and intensity. I was a worthless piece of s***, a f***ing obnoxious little brat who needed to either go f*** himself or go to hell. A deceitful liar trying to manipulate her. I was many terrible things. When I did manage to piece together a friendship, only ever making it over to their house once before she found a problem with my relationship and got me to stop being their friend (I have some stories to post of this, maybe I will) I would see, as if imagined, my friend beside me as I was being railed on, feeling embarrassed and alone.
Whatever I had done, even when seemingly nothing at all, I was most often very sorry and apologetic, doing whatever I could to appease the situation and appeal to her mercy. Sometimes, if something wasn't my fault or what I was being grounded for didn't make sense as if she just made it up, I would explain my case and the situation. My logic never appealed to her and by the time I explained anything I was already being cited for talking while she was talking, talking over her, and arguing. I loved my mother, still do, deeply. I longed for her approval and attention, her and my grandmother are all I had. I went through several stages of how I processed her behavior, first I internalized it all to be my fault entirely, I had done something wrong and was receiving just punishment, after all I had little insight into the inner workings of other homes, how was I to know my being lax in sink duty was met with unwarranted punishment? Later I came under the impression that my mother was fully cognizant of her actions and that they were deliberate, that she was training me for something, that she loved me and this was her way of preparing me for something later. Over the years I had different ways of explaining away her behavior, maybe in another post I'll go into this subject with more depth, but for many years until my late teens, I had a way of explaining away anything.
My social life.
Not having a father to teach me the ways of a man and being left in the charge of a mother who kept me locked in did wonders for my social life. I was picked on for sure, but never felt like I had it the worst, there was always some other kid that had worse social skills or was weaker than I. I gave physical education all my heart so even though PE was my intro into the world of sports I still managed better than a good portion of the guys because I put my whole self into it, so that aspect wasn't so bad. I was only picked last at recess because I was there every day in the lineup for basketball, football, etc. I refused to be a wallflower and didn't take to the other kids that would just sit these games out. Seventh grade was probably the worst for bullying. The cliques at my new school, having just left my fourth through sixth elementary school for this middle school, were very well defined. People knew which club you belonged to by how you dressed, spoke, and acted. I didn't care for the cliques, I made a friend here and there and existed outside of them. It didn't take long for one group to realize I had a friend in their rival group and for me to get the official boot from both. By the end of the first semester I had befriended and fallen out of the nerds and the skaters and for it the skater kids would jump me in the hallways from behind. One would push another one and the second one would push into me, I suppose out of fear of being caught the second guy could claim to have been pushed by his buddy who was just goofing around, pretty smart I guess but it did me no good. I hated seventh grade and soon stopped trying in physical education. I was in sage (accelerated) classes however, as I had been as far back as I can remember, I was even taking the eighth grade math class, the only one in seventh grade. I liked sage, it let me be creative while my other classes were focused on rote memorization, sage classes always focused on exploring and discovery. Needing a higher level of math once I reached eighth grade is what led to my switching schools, to a middle school just across from a high school where myself and several others would be walking over to in order to take our math class.
Early intro to high school.
One of the students walking over the the high school with us was also taking two other high school courses, I got to thinking about this after feeling unchallenged in my eighth grade equivalents and decided if I did take on the extra classes at the high school, I'd be returning to eighth grade for what, PE and lunch? So on its fifth day my eighth grade career ended and I entered into high school. I was never bullied in high school, not really ever picked on or put down either, I guess there were too many other small fishes and I just wasn't that satisfying a target, I was still a tiny guy, one notch above rail thin, and fairly socially awkward. I made a few friends and settled down in high school.
The emotional abuse at home continued and grew in severity over the years. When my mom went back to work, she had been going to school when we moved back to AZ then stopped a semester short of a business degree, I would have to be standing at attention beside the front door with her coffee mug. She was late most days and it was oftentimes my fault, I got in the way as she flew out the door and I would be "Making [me] late g**d***it!" If she couldn't find what she was looking for in the cupboards she would knock everything out onto the floor, leaving me to clean it up before I went to school. Many mornings I started my day being yelled at, just before I was to head off to school.
Being in the car with her was no different, I had to come with her the majority of times she left the house, I don't think she felt comfortable in public without me (maybe I'll post more to this later). She would scream her head off at other drivers, all kinds of obscenities would fly out of her mouth, I jokingly called it Creative Cussing 101, she laughed at that but inside I was disturbed by her anger.
...continued in next post.
Why divulge my life story to the Internet?
I have a close friend, a mentor, a support group, and soon a counselor as well, so why post my struggles to the Internet? I can come here and post about what I've been going through recently, I can mull over my thoughts and sum up an idea in a succinct statement, I can get feedback from others who will call me out if I'm not being real about my situation, and also because the Internet is always here. While my supports become busy and unavailable the Net is always here for me to vent my frustrations and I can know that it was shared with someone and I didn't go unheard. Moreover my purpose in sharing is to connect with others, maybe someone who has been through or is currently going through a similar situation, and in seeing my struggle and pain can feel themselves a little less alone, can know they have a voice and share it here with someone who has been through the same. It can give purpose to my pain in lightening the pain of others who encounter similar situations in their lives, it can encourage someone who might not be as far along in their struggle as I am in mine now knowing that someone else has made it further toward the light and in that, they can too. So by all means call me out where you think I'm being lax in my fight or if something sounds funny as if I'm not being honest and join in if you've been in or are in a similar situation, don't be afraid to ask questions and I welcome all constructive feedback.
A note before I begin: The following contains accounts of child abuse, mainly emotional but some light physical abuse as well, for those people who have issues with triggers.
The early years.
My father ended his life in 1988, I was three years old. I remember thrashing about in bed as a little boy screaming and beating my fists into my face and chest, I would bite the wooden edging of my bed dragging my teeth into it or stabbing a pencil deep into the grain. I associate this with being fatherless, I had an anger or rage. I would flip out when a book of mine had its page torn - maybe I picked up my rage and perfectionism from my mother, I don't know, but I am familiar with a very deep seated rage that dissipates early in my years and I don't see rise up again until much later.
I grew up with my mom and my grandmother. I lived with my mom and would see my grandmother often. Living in Boston I would spend many weekends over at her house where she kept a day care. It was neat to be around the little kids and I would help out with whatever I could. I remember using a step-up to be able to see over the sink so I could help with the dishes. As far back as my earliest memories, around five years old, my mother was always very protective of me, keeping me by her side, hoarding me and my time. Even out in stores I was seldom ever allowed to leave her side to go look at something or browse around, I always had to watch her and her purse, even into my teens. From a young age my mother began confiding in me, she treated me as an adult in that regard having me as her confidant. She would tell me things she disapproved of about my grandmother often, my grandmother would do the same, entrusting me with her secrets. I remember once trying to bring the two together like a scene out of the film "The Parent Trap", going to each of the two with the line: "Don't tell her I told you but she said such and such" hoping they would build a stronger bond between themselves and stop with the critiques. I had no male presence in my life, I grew up feeling more comfortable around older women than kids my age.
The three of us moved back to Arizona when I was eight, I say back because I was born in AZ and left soon after my father died, I assume my mom wanted to rid herself of the situation and its memory and start fresh though I don't really know why we moved to Boston other than to know my mother grew up there. My mother's reign on my life started to tighten and around the age of eight is when I first recall my mother's temper - she started to get mad, very mad and out of nowhere.
The crazy years.
My mother could be furious at the drop of a hat, I'd be in my room lost in my own world of fantasy friends, living a fantasy social life probably playing an eight-player board game by myself (I always won) when I'd hear my mother's screams, "Get in here RIGHT NOW!" once I dutifully arrived I would be greeted with "What the f*** is this s***?" pointing to the kitchen sink. Apparently I had left crumbs on the kitchen sponge, or maybe the sponge was left the wrong side up, possibly the sponge was not wrung out fully or maybe even had some soap left in it - whatever the case I was, without failure, grounded while having managed to "Ruin [my] weekend", "Thanks a f***ing lot!" Sometimes there was no making out what I was grounded for, my mother was angry and I was available and that was that. My mother never hit me but she was physically abusive in other ways, slapping or smacking me. She would press her index finger into my forehead and speaking so close and furiously she would be spitting on me. She would pinch my arm and twist it to get me walk with her or bend my fingers back. She would step up right on my toes and push me back. My mother was a petite woman, thin and short, she was beautiful with sleek long dark hair, but when she got angry there arose within her a demon banshee.
Over the years the beratings grew in frequency and intensity. I was a worthless piece of s***, a f***ing obnoxious little brat who needed to either go f*** himself or go to hell. A deceitful liar trying to manipulate her. I was many terrible things. When I did manage to piece together a friendship, only ever making it over to their house once before she found a problem with my relationship and got me to stop being their friend (I have some stories to post of this, maybe I will) I would see, as if imagined, my friend beside me as I was being railed on, feeling embarrassed and alone.
Whatever I had done, even when seemingly nothing at all, I was most often very sorry and apologetic, doing whatever I could to appease the situation and appeal to her mercy. Sometimes, if something wasn't my fault or what I was being grounded for didn't make sense as if she just made it up, I would explain my case and the situation. My logic never appealed to her and by the time I explained anything I was already being cited for talking while she was talking, talking over her, and arguing. I loved my mother, still do, deeply. I longed for her approval and attention, her and my grandmother are all I had. I went through several stages of how I processed her behavior, first I internalized it all to be my fault entirely, I had done something wrong and was receiving just punishment, after all I had little insight into the inner workings of other homes, how was I to know my being lax in sink duty was met with unwarranted punishment? Later I came under the impression that my mother was fully cognizant of her actions and that they were deliberate, that she was training me for something, that she loved me and this was her way of preparing me for something later. Over the years I had different ways of explaining away her behavior, maybe in another post I'll go into this subject with more depth, but for many years until my late teens, I had a way of explaining away anything.
My social life.
Not having a father to teach me the ways of a man and being left in the charge of a mother who kept me locked in did wonders for my social life. I was picked on for sure, but never felt like I had it the worst, there was always some other kid that had worse social skills or was weaker than I. I gave physical education all my heart so even though PE was my intro into the world of sports I still managed better than a good portion of the guys because I put my whole self into it, so that aspect wasn't so bad. I was only picked last at recess because I was there every day in the lineup for basketball, football, etc. I refused to be a wallflower and didn't take to the other kids that would just sit these games out. Seventh grade was probably the worst for bullying. The cliques at my new school, having just left my fourth through sixth elementary school for this middle school, were very well defined. People knew which club you belonged to by how you dressed, spoke, and acted. I didn't care for the cliques, I made a friend here and there and existed outside of them. It didn't take long for one group to realize I had a friend in their rival group and for me to get the official boot from both. By the end of the first semester I had befriended and fallen out of the nerds and the skaters and for it the skater kids would jump me in the hallways from behind. One would push another one and the second one would push into me, I suppose out of fear of being caught the second guy could claim to have been pushed by his buddy who was just goofing around, pretty smart I guess but it did me no good. I hated seventh grade and soon stopped trying in physical education. I was in sage (accelerated) classes however, as I had been as far back as I can remember, I was even taking the eighth grade math class, the only one in seventh grade. I liked sage, it let me be creative while my other classes were focused on rote memorization, sage classes always focused on exploring and discovery. Needing a higher level of math once I reached eighth grade is what led to my switching schools, to a middle school just across from a high school where myself and several others would be walking over to in order to take our math class.
Early intro to high school.
One of the students walking over the the high school with us was also taking two other high school courses, I got to thinking about this after feeling unchallenged in my eighth grade equivalents and decided if I did take on the extra classes at the high school, I'd be returning to eighth grade for what, PE and lunch? So on its fifth day my eighth grade career ended and I entered into high school. I was never bullied in high school, not really ever picked on or put down either, I guess there were too many other small fishes and I just wasn't that satisfying a target, I was still a tiny guy, one notch above rail thin, and fairly socially awkward. I made a few friends and settled down in high school.
The emotional abuse at home continued and grew in severity over the years. When my mom went back to work, she had been going to school when we moved back to AZ then stopped a semester short of a business degree, I would have to be standing at attention beside the front door with her coffee mug. She was late most days and it was oftentimes my fault, I got in the way as she flew out the door and I would be "Making [me] late g**d***it!" If she couldn't find what she was looking for in the cupboards she would knock everything out onto the floor, leaving me to clean it up before I went to school. Many mornings I started my day being yelled at, just before I was to head off to school.
Being in the car with her was no different, I had to come with her the majority of times she left the house, I don't think she felt comfortable in public without me (maybe I'll post more to this later). She would scream her head off at other drivers, all kinds of obscenities would fly out of her mouth, I jokingly called it Creative Cussing 101, she laughed at that but inside I was disturbed by her anger.
...continued in next post.
