Because it needs to be said.
I am a very patient person in regards to others. I have very little patience with myself. I have a very bad tendency to not show myself compassion and empathy, and yet I give copious amounts of these things to others, and historically to people who didn’t deserve it or received too much of it. The people I have been are gone and I never treated them – treated myself – the way I deserved to be treated. I should have called out the people who hurt me instead of taking their shit and in memoriam of myself I will finally correct this.
Mom: You abused me. You were emotionally, mentally and verbally abusive for most of my childhood and all of my adulthood. I played the role of your confidant, your parent, your scapegoat, your spouse, your whipping boy. The role I rarely got to play was that of a carefree child. I’m 32 and I’m still uncovering layers of trauma that affect me in unforeseen ways because of you. I and the people around me have to constantly reassure me that yes, people want to hear what I have to say, and that even if they didn’t I have every right to take up space. I still cannot walk into bars – the little girl inside of me still trembles in fear at the prospect. Driving is an ordeal: the one time I was pulled over I went into complete panic mode and broke into sobs when I got home. A wave of nausea hits me at the site of police sirens in my rear-view mirror. I still go into survival mode at any sign of possible conflict, however insignificant and, to be honest, nonexistent that conflict may be. I could write a book on all the different ways your actions affect my behavior and thought patterns.
You didn’t protect me from the world. Both you and Dad used me as a weapon to hurt each other. There was a moment when I was eight that I thought I was going to die and it’s because of decisions you made. I was left to my own devices in a bar at night, surrounded by strangers while you drank your ass off; it is a miracle I wasn’t kidnapped or assaulted or any of the other terrible things that can happen to a unsupervised child. And after you were good and drunk, you drove us home. You endangered me. One of these times you hit another car and drove off – how many children get to watch their mother being arrested?
You kept me from my dad’s family. You never mentioned my great-grandparents and how they were at my first birthday, or how we ran into one of my dad’s half-sisters once at the mall. You never mentioned my dad’s paternal family ever and how so many of them lived close by. Those that have found me treat me the way family should. They care and make an effort to be a part of my life. They tell me how my great-grandmother would have welcomed me with open arms if only she were alive. I have missed so much and it’s mostly because of you.
You confused me. You could tell me I was your reason for living and that I was a selfish, spoiled, rotten brat all in one night. You made me feel ashamed for not be 100 percent Mexican. You taught me to fear my own family and that they would be worse than you. You showed such vitriol towards me that I was convinced I must be a horrible person; how could I not be when my own mother obviously hated me? And yet I was the only one you wanted by your side as you were dying. I will never understand you.
Dad: You were the first person to abandon me, and then you drank yourself to death. Granted, so did Mom. Mom may have greatly exacerbated my self-worth issues, but only because the seed of those issues was planted by you. You weren’t around because you never sought help for your alcoholism; maybe you wanted to drink your life away. If you had been around, maybe you would have seen what Mom was doing to me. I suspect you would have done something, unlike the rest of my family. But you weren’t around, and because of this you share the responsibility of my abuse.
My mom’s family: You all knew she had substance abuse problems and that she had those problems even before I was ever thought up. You knew that first car accident was because she was drunk, and then wondered why I was terrified to get back in the car with her. Both accidents you made me go to school the next day as if nothing had ever happened, especially not me being completely traumatized. Some of you suspected something was wrong when I was older, but you didn’t want to rock the boat. Some of you were presented with the truth and decided, even though I had evidence, that I must be lying. And then you all acted shocked when I moved out three weeks after turning 18. I don’t think any of you have forgiven me for that, though there’s nothing to forgive. You all, on the other hand, should be begging me for forgiveness. You never will, though, and because of this you have my pity. But not my forgiveness.
My ex: I allowed you to bully me. To silence me. To dictate my thoughts and opinions. I convinced myself I was agnostic because anything more spiritual than that and you would have ridiculed and aggressively argued with me until I conceded, never stopping to wonder what you were doing to me. You didn’t respect boundaries. There’s so many small things that you did that by themselves could be minimized, but taken together…it adds up. You debated with me about emotional matters instead of having a conversation. You wouldn’t allow me to just close my eyes during a horror movie. You told me to get a thicker skin when your friends in our RPG group gave me so much crap that I went into the bathroom to cry. You told me I was emotionally immature when I broke down after going into a bar with you.
And you couldn’t take no for an answer, even when I asked you to stop asking for sex once I said no the first time. Did it really not ever occur to you that my issues with saying no to people would include you? Especially you, because in my mind, at the time, I thought you deserved the girlfriend that you wanted me to be. Even after all these years I have a hard time calling it what it is, but what else could coerced sex be? Oh, it would never hold up in court – I’m quite sure it doesn’t meet the legal definition of rape. But it meets other definitions of rape. And it felt like rape.
You slowly and subtly beat me down in such a way that I didn’t even notice until I left, and even more so throughout these years of silence between us. It was never your intent, I know that; how many times have you told me that you hope I remember you for what you tried to do? No, it wasn’t your intent, but the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
I hope my past selves are appeased. These are things I should have said a long time ago, to these people’s faces. For one reason or another, though, I can’t or won’t. For those who are alive I know there’s no point. It would only end up hurting me and that defeats the purpose of this.
“Suddenly I’m overcome, dissolving like the setting sun…”
You say don’t hate me. It’s hard to believe when you won’t speak to me, you won’t even acknowledge my existence. and you maybe on purpose sabotaged my relationship with your mom. She acknowledges my existence only a teeny bit more than you.
God, it hurts. It really fucking hurts. You were one of my best friends. One of my favorite people. I don’t know what happened. Is it really over what my boyfriend did for a living five years ago? That’s enough for you to hate me? I know, you said you didn’t. But, do you know how emotionally manipulative it felt when you responded with two somewhat cryptic sentences after more than two years? It ripped out my heart.
I hate this. I don’t want to lose people. I’ve lost so many and I can’t stand it anymore. I keep hoping that one day you’ll miss me and reach out, but maybe it’s time to accept that, for you, love (any type of love) is conditional and I do not meet your conditions. I’m not worthy anymore.
I’m moving to Tacoma in ten days and it kills me that once I do my chances of running into you on one of your visits will be zero. I feel like I’ll never see you again. I think that is how you want it. I feel like I’ve been grieving over your death for two and a half years now. I miss you so damn much. Any time I see anything Ghostbusters-related I want to cry. Isn’t that ridiculous?
Happy Groundhog Day! ( I have nothing better to title this)
Someone once pointed out that I only seem to write when I’m sad; when I’m doing well I don’t really produce any blogs/journals/poetry. I didn’t really think that was true until I looked back on old writings and saw that…yeah, they’re all filled with pain, worry, and melancholy.
I’m realizing that I have a harder time writing about how I’m feeling when the feelings are not shitty. In fact, I have no desire to write much at all. I’ve thought about going back and editing old poems, maybe make them sound not so…over-dramatic. A few have potential to be something good. Many others could be used as blackmail against me they’re so bad.I have written a bit in the last year or so, but it’s nothing I want to share publicly; my therapist wants me to feel my feelings (what a ridiculous idea) and not just set them aside. One way of doing this is writing it out and the other is to actually cry when I feel like crying. Since the urge to cry always seems to come upon me at inopportune moments, I usually end up writing. I kind of wish I hadn’t because now I’m feeling more about things I thought I was over and discovering moments in life that I have never actually dealt with. Wee.
But for the most part, I’m doing well. I still have crappy things going on – money is a problem as always, my maternal family is still treating me like a pariah, my number one nemesis is, as always, my own mind and heart- but my life is…stable. I have a job I love. I go home every night to someone who cherishes me. I live with the most adorable bunny in the world. I’m not actually freaked by the fact that I’m moving to another state in a few months. And, I’ve found that when I’m happy I actually create things, which is what I do instead of write. I draw intricate patterns and come up with ideas that I can actually see becoming a project instead of remaining just an idea rolling around in my head. I connect jump rings in patterns that sometimes hurt my brain to create chainmail jewelry; I’ve even sold some of it. I do things.
The only thing that mars everything is how the one person who read this blog still hates me . I assume he does (which leads me to ask myself: why am I even writing this? I KNOW no one will read this). I don’t know. All I know is that I continue to have bad dreams where he expresses how much he loathes me and wants me to just die already. I don’t know how to deal with this. Nobody who really knew me before the age of 18 is in my life anymore and it makes me feel abandoned for reasons I’m unsure of.
Life is just…very strange at times. I feel old. Working with kids who never even lived in the 20th century does not help with that feeling.
“And if I am unloved, l have unloved, too.”
Aaand then, Gloria opened her mouth and pandemonium ensued.
Gobble Gobble
It’s a beautiful day today. The air has a bite to it and the sun is only somewhat shining. It’s the day before Thanksgiving and everyone seems to be in a good mood. I wish I could join them.
It’s been two years since Mom died and I have no idea how that happened. Two years since I last saw her breathe and heard her say, “I love you.” It’s also been two years since I’ve had to worry about calls from jail, abusive boyfriends, and emotional manipulation. It’s a trade off, I suppose. Some days I wonder if it’s worth it. It is for my sanity, there’s no argument there. But, my mother’s death is still a wound as raw as it was when she died.
My therapist pointed out that everyone that had been there throughout my growing up is now gone in one way or another. Friends have not kept in touch and family has either died or become indifferent. It’s strange how I have, not a lot, but some family still out there and yet they might as well be dead. I haven’t spoken to many of them for almost two years. I’m currently attempting to get together with my godparents (thank you, Facebook, for telling me they’ll be in town because we all know it’s not like they’ll tell me). It’s hard to plan something though when the texts exude such warmth: “We will get in on thursday night or friday morning.”; “I will let you know when we get in town.” God, I can feel how much they want to see me in those texts, can’t you?
Sarcasm, you are my best friend.
I tell myself that I have wonderful friends, a loving boyfriend, people who have made me a part of their family and show how much they care, but somehow they do not fill the hole that my family has ripped out of my heart.
At least Mom, in her own twisted and dysfunctional way, made it known that she loved me.
Ugh, I don’t want to think about this anymore. Time to go the farmer’s market.
“Burn it down, till the embers smoke on the ground…”
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I thought…I thought I knew what I wanted in life and maybe I still do, but I feel so incredibly lost. It doesn’t look like I’ll be going to SJSU in the fall, and a part of me…doesn’t care. Not in an “I’m stuck in depression at the moment and don’t care about anything,” but that the idea of not going doesn’t fill me with a feeling of failure. I’m more worried- bah, not worried, wary maybe, of how family members will take it. But even then, I think I’m at the point that if I were to receive some kind of criticism from them I would go into berserk mode, about how if they want me to focus on my education more and if they want to know why it’s taking me so long it’s because I’ve been having to do all of this on my fucking own.
I’m so tired of the uphill battle. The constant tilting and twirling of my life and how nothing is ever stable, of worrying about bills and where I’ll be living in a month or two. I’m tired of not being able to do the things I want to do and how I put off dreams for when I’m “more stable” and done with my bachelors degree. I’ve only been chasing after my degree so doggedly because…because why? To show I’m a capable person who can be a productive member of society and be seen as successful? Successful to whom? Family? People who’s opinion I don’t/shouldn’t care about? My family is so concerned with me being able to do everything “on my own” so why am I concerned with how they see me? It’s MY life. They’ve made the conscious effort to not have any influence in it so I should live it they way I want to and not give any fucks towards what they think. I mean, it’s not like they’ve invested any kind of energy into me.
I’m so concerned about what my family thinks…but the people in my life who actually act like family only want one thing from me. They want me to be happy, however that may be.
And what would make me happy? I don’t know, but it’s not what I’m doing right now. I’m tired of college, of having to take ANOTHER writing class because the CSU system doesn’t think a student at the junior level can write still. Which, honestly, there are people out there who fit that description but that’s not their faults-it’s the CSU system itself. I’m tired of taking random gen ed classes that don’t relate at all to my major; SJSU has four more gen ed requirements called “SJSU Studies” that are just more liberal arts education crap. I love learning about anything and everything, I do, but c’mon. I want to do art-I want to learn alternative printing processes and watercolor and figure drawing and glassblowing and how to use a potter’s wheel. I’m done with general education.
I’m done with a lot of things.
“Can’t take the kid from the fight….take the fight from of the kid.”
I’ve been protective over my mom ever since I was a little girl. One of my earliest memories is Christmas Eve when I was four years old; it was 1992. My memory isn’t very clear anymore, but I remember my dad had been drunk and was beating the crap out of my mother. When he finally passed out, my mom was almost unconscious. I remember running to the front room and grabbing the container that held the long matchsticks used to light the fireplace and throwing them at my dad. It didn’t really do anything-what physical strength does a four year old have? –but it was the principle of the matter. Somebody was hurting my mom and that just wasn’t gonna fly with me.
For most of my life, the relationship between my mother and I has always been reversed. I was her confidant, her therapist, her mom. When something from her past was making her cry, I held her. When she passed out drunk, I put a blanket over her and tucked myself into bed, since I technically was still young enough to have a bedtime. As I’ve gotten older I’ve done my best to protect her from the hardships of life. I’ve taken so many calls from her, crying that her boyfriend beat her, or a “friend” was taking advantage of her, or that life was just too much and she was just so, so tired of trying anymore. I’ve listened and soothed her the best I could. I did whatever was in my power to protect her, even when it was from herself.
I’ve always protected her. I’ve always cradled her in my heart, trying to shield the world from her.
And now she and I have come to an instance where I am powerless. I cannot do a thing but hold her and tell her I love her and that she’ll be fine, when I have no clue what will happen.
My mom is dying.
She’s dying, and I can’t hold her hand and try to make this final journey for her any easier. I can’t do anything but just watch as my mom slowly fades away, going somewhere I can’t follow along, at least not now. I can’t ease her pain. Morphine can ease the physical, but the emotional…I can’t even help with that. Her mind is already mostly somewhere else. Her brief moments of lucidness are spent with me smiling at her and asking if she’s comfortable. I can’t bear for her to be in any more pain. My god, she’s had enough of that.
I have to stop writing, I’m going to start sobbing.
My Parents
*Ironically, this was written before this weekend. It’s a little unsettling.
His story is done-
The epilogue is written,
the cover is closed.
But hers?
Hers is wide open.
Words of bitter pain
of quiet love
of expected defeat
may still be written.
The pages are dwindling though,
and who knows what section
we shall shelve
Her story.
“Seven devils all around me…”
I want to push everyone off a cliff.
I want to scream at the top of my lungs.
I want to punch all the walls around me.
I want to go where nobody knows me.
I want someone to realize something is wrong.
I want to stop having breakdowns.
I want to be publicly open with how I feel and not fear that others will think that I’m weak.
That I’m lazy.
That I lack a backbone.
That I hide behind words to “excuse” my behavior.
I don’t want people to think that I’m trying to “excuse” anything.
I want to be happy.
I want Society to get off my back.
I want people to understand that mental illness is an illness like any other illness.
I want to do something spectacular.
I want to be loved and wanted.
I am a bloom that is being choked by weeds that I cannot see.
Gloria's Blog 