It's official. I have PMS and I'm irritable and crampy and confused and frustrated and not at all rational for the next week or so.
Now that I've got that out of the way I'm ready to write. I'm old. Or at least that is how I feel after this weekend. I drank a lot of Friday night and I think it's official I need to lay off the shit. I never vomit or get hangovers and it happened. It means I'm old and don't you dare argue with me. I know my body. Only old age would make it respond that way. To be fair to my feeble body though it did hold a lot of vodka that night. And to be extra fair to it I took shots of some disgusting shit. I'm only equipped for vodka, that's it, the end. But the truth is I'm not even so sure about that anymore.
I've decided to be kinder to myself. I have been more abusive to myself than anyone could imagine. I'm a mess. My body is a mess. I think I'm finally tired of it. I don't know how it happens.
Little by little over the past few years I have opened up about my past. Shit, if you don't count those college kids at work everyone I know has had a rough childhood. Most of the people I know had it a lot worse than I did. But I let mine stick with me, a lot. Emilie and I chatted about it a little the other day.
I can't count the ways that I let the abuse in my childhood take over my adult life. It's there and each time I peel a layer of it off I find another crusty layer underneath. I don't blame anyone. Who's fault could it be? We all have so many issues. Perhaps my parents shouldn't have been aloud to reproduce but I am glad that I was born, that I am living. I'll take this life even if it means dealing with everything that did happen when I was a child.
It's funny. Today I was sitting in the living room just staring at a picture of my dad. He was so handsome in that picture. It's only been in the past year or so that I could look at his picture and not feel hate. Now I just wonder about him. If he can see me, is he okay with what I've become? I used to ask myself if he had the capacity to feel sorry for what he put us through. I think, if he were alive and well that he would feel sorrow for his actions. Though I don't think he ever wanted to hurt his children it can't be denied that he abused us and that he let us be abused. We got good at dodging his hand and learned to be silent when the hands of his shady friends and son would travel to my sister and I.
I know this is a bit serious. It's the mood I'm in. That picture of him is beautiful though. I think because I've finally forgiven him I can say that. I can also say that I miss him. I really want to see his grave again. I want to sit there and talk to him and leave him flowers. I'm going to take a road trip sometime when Abi is old enough to be without me for four or five days. I hope that wherever he is it is peaceful because he was never at peace when he was alive. I can remember when he was alive that we were never aloud to wake him up when he was sleeping. He had nightmares constantly and they were violent. I never thought about how hard it must of been for him, how hard his life must have been. And through all of his bullshit there really were some moments of clarity and peace. There were moments where I know he loved me and was proud. He always used to make me come to the dining room and would pull out my mom's huge chapter books when I was in kindergarten and first grade and would ask me to read for everyone. Because he couldn't read or write, he was so impressed that I could at such a young age.
I think that is why I've always held on to reading. He died when I was in second grade but I knew that me reading always made him proud. Not because I could at such a young age but because he never could. He left me with some fucked up memories but I find if I dig a little deeper I can find some okay ones. They aren't much but I'm holding on tight to them.
The issues that I have spent so much time running and hiding from really have taken a toll on my body. There are coping mechanisms that kick in when you need them that you don't realize. Obviously food has been one for me as well as selective memories. It took awhile to let myself deal with all the bad memories. I firmly believe that some children block out the really bad abuse until they can handle it. Those memories...they trickle out here and there. Good or bad, they are still part of me.
I've never tried to be a victim about any of it. I hate when abuse makes people attention seeking. But I'm sure it's happened here or there. I don't know. I think I'm setting out to find some new ways of coping. This shit that I do to myself just isn't working anymore. It's not for me or I'm not for it. Something like that.
Besides, I think I'm being a bit hypocritical at this point. It's getting really hard to teach my clients when I won't take any of my own advice. I hate hypocrites. I never plan on being one. It just happens.
That's it. Hopefully my blog never strays this direction again. I'm so not one of those girls, I swear. Hell, I try to be the furthest thing from sappy female there is. Just forgive me for this one.
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1 comment:
What I love about you, Becca, is that you don't let your "issues" control your life. As we have discussed previously, my father cannot let anything from his childhood go. It rules his whole being. You strive to get past your "issues", and you don't let them control you. That is why I respect you.
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