Wednesday, February 27, 2013

I looked up this photo in an old school annual from 1975 to send a copy to the friend in mine that was also in the picture. This was me in kindergarten or first grade. I was so tiny and I was already bleeding to death on the inside. I was frightened every second, had insomnia and when I did sleep I had night terrors so vivid, many of them are with me today. I react emotionally to this picture because I didn't have the skills to verbalize it then but I was alone. I already put mask on in order for people to love me but when you get love via false behavior or masking your self, it's like trying to get belly full by eating beautiful photographs of food. No one saw me,, or I felt as no one saw me. I sounded like a girl, walked like a girl and while I do not think I ever actually wanted to be a girl, I sure hated being a boy. I wasn't a very good one, and I had a really hard time pretending. I picked up a lot of shame so so early. My sister would pick on me trying to "toughen" me up. The worst part and the part that like or not still affects me today is, I had no one, no one that I could run to or crawl up in the lap up to feel safe. I would get banished to bed, everyone would go to sleep and the terror would sit in for me. I vividly remember sitting outside my parent's door in hallway crying so hard I could breath and I heard my dad tell my mother to let me cry.  When my mother would see my frightened it would make her laugh. For the next 20 years I would have dreams about trying to wake them in the middle of the night and they would either be dead or would not be able to rouse with me shaking them.  That just left me to face whatever ugliness alone. I look at that picture of me and my heart kind of breaks. 

I have to apologize to my Dad and Step Mother for the nuclear bomb of an email I sent a couple of years ago where I detailed everyone of the little hurtful things to my Step Mother.  Just a few minutes ago at the gym I am filled with rage and fantasize that instead of apologizing at the dinner table I gut both of them with a butter knife. It's impossible to me to move forward in life if I don't find a way to forgive my dad for not seeing I was drowning for two decades, even though I wasn't screaming. I'm angry that as one or the two people with everday access to me they both let me bleed to death and I'm angry that I didn't know how to ask for help. When I look at that kid, in is patent leather white slip ons , I wish so badly to just go get him from the front steps of the school in the picture, and try to not get his heart broke and his spirit shattered. I'm not sure how I get over the anger at my dad. I believe them, resentment is poison to addicts. The pisser is I thought I had made miles of progress with this, and the thought of calling my dad up to catch a meal with he and his wife finds my insides boiling. I'm fucking disappointed. I really thought this was pretty healed up and suddenly it's whipped up again and honestly, not to insult anyone with illness in their family now, but it feels just like I was told the cancer I thought I had beaten has returned for more attention. Dammit.

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