This is not a woe is me post. I take full responsibility for the things I say and do as an adult. I just have deep wounds, and as those with such wounds and the entire psychology profession knows, it’s so hard to heal them and move on.
It’s so much easier, so much more natural, to self destruct.
I’ve heard horror stories from some friends about their childhoods, and by no means does the tale of my upbringing scratch the surface of the worst of them. But here’s what I know: I relate only (fully) to those who grew up with narcissistic parents, or in some sort of emotionally abusive situation, because without that kind of upbringing, it’s really easy to say you can grow out of it or change your thought process or whatever. Just stop. Sometimes, I can. Sometimes, I lose control of myself. It’s as if to feel anything I need to feel everything, the good, the bad, all of it. Complete, utter, beautiful self destruction. Straight off the deep end.
From the age of three to eight, I was frequently “disciplined” with a belt and very strong spankings. This was, 99% of the time, due to not cleaning my room when asked. I remember little from my childhood, but I’ll never forget the look in my father’s eyes or the anger in his voice as he called me to his bedroom, pulled down my pants, whisked off his belt, the leather lashing through belt loops, then, him holding me down as I squirmed and bit my tongue and cried as he hit me over and over and over and over again. Sometimes he said he’d stop if I would just say I’d listen and do what I was told, but I would never give in.
He always used the leather side of the belt. Except once he must have been so angry he didn’t notice he hit me with the metal part and my shirt pulled up and I got welts up and down my back.
But many people are disciplined as children and they turn into perfectly normal adults, right? I hear this over and over again. I disagree but also this was just part of what shaped my psyche. I won’t go into detail about my mother because she gets upset when I write things about her and I understand why that would be upsetting. But anyone who knows her would say that she lacks empathy and only cares about herself. She is the daughter of a malignant narcissist who did not allow her to grow up, and when I view my mother as a child in how she thinks and acts, I can accept her and also empathize with her.
This is why it was very hard to watch my father be so cruel to her. It was his way or the highway at all times. I understood why he would get angry at her at times, but I never felt it was right for what he said to her and what he did to her that I witnessed throughout my childhood. The constant fighting. The trying to hold my father back so he wouldn’t touch my mother, because he rarely would hurt her, physically, if I was there. The broken objects and glasses and doors slammed and bruises and the silence. The long, empty silence after it was all finally over. For the moment.
And the anger wasn’t just directed at my mother, or towards me when I wouldn’t clean. My dad was convinced I was this brilliant kid (of course I was, I was his offspring and he was brilliant, so why wouldn’t I be) who was not working up to potential because I wasn’t trying and that made him extremely angry as well. I think because I was a girl and “artistic” he accepted that at some point and just gave up on me. But he would get so angry when I struggled with math. — You know, I just watched an old video of myself where I was in kindergarten, 5 years old, and my mother was filming me answering 6×6 and 7×7 and 10×100. I loved math. I loved the thrill of solving problems. Until he made me feel like a failure because it got hard for me and I just couldn’t get it. And I gave up. I figured I’m just stupid. It doesn’t come naturally to me like it does to him.
Just the constant anger. The constant criticism. I could never be good enough. Could never be thin enough. Could never be pretty enough. Yea I’m pretty, my parents would tell me, but wear makeup, don’t wear dresses that show your fat stomach. You’re pretty, but only if you hide yourself.
So, there you have it. If I’ve ever done or said anything to you that was off-putting in some way, this is not an excuse, but it’s a bit of an explanation. And I’m truly, genuinely sorry if my involuntary efforts to self destruct impact you in any way. I try REALLY hard to keep to myself if I’m in one of these self destructive funks, but unfortunately what I crave is someone who I want to love me to hate me so intensely and then, somehow, I win their love. Yea, that’s f’d up. But that’s me in a nutshell.
I’m tired of pretending I’m ok, because I’m not. And I know I have free will and can do CBT and whatever and things can get better. But I don’t want to SSRI myself out of my depression. My serotonin levels are low because of all this shit. I’m super susceptible to addiction because I need the highs and I crave the lows. I want to be torn to shreds and put back together again.
But what I want is not what I want. It is my addiction, it’s what I crave. It’s what I feel I need. And like any addict, I can’t stop myself sometimes from doing things that I know are bad for me to get my fix. I subconsciously seek other high-functioning addicts because that’s what you do, you use each other, you find a fellow addict who craves the same high you do.
But why do this?
Because I don’t now who I am, other than in the eyes of another who makes me feel like I’ll never be good enough, but who gives me little moments of recognition for doing a good job, for being special, for being worthy of existence. When I’m in that state, I can be highly productive and even “happy” momentarily.
Happy, like an addict.
In 2020, I’m going to fix this. As a mother, I need to fix this.
But it’s accepting that life is not above feeling such highs and lows, and learning how to self motivate and embrace stability.
And like any addict, the natural thought is, I’ll do that, after one last fix. Just one last fix. Just one last high. Then I’ll stop.
No. I need to stop now.
I
need
to
decompress.
life with interest 