Tag Archives: abuse

Bloodletting

I really don't.

From PostSecret

I’ve spent most of the past few days working intensely on my NaNoWriMo “novel.” It is going to be much, much longer than the 50,000-word goal I set for myself. I initially planned  to write a memoirs in the vein of this blog, cataloging the past several years of my life and events that led to me losing pretty much everything. But it’s not about that at all. I haven’t even touched on that. I’ve written a fair amount about my bizarre upbringing, childhood bullies, the beginnings of my health problems, my mother’s illnesses, and her drastic change in personality after years of emotional abuse and physical disability. My NaNo profile is linked to in the right sidebar; just click on my Rebel badge. If you’re doing NaNo, you should be my writing buddy. I should hit 16,000 words before I go to bed tonight.

Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death, by the way. I’m trying to ignore it. Last year, I was quite sad because it was also election day, and she had only become an American citizen about three years before her death, and I remember helping her vote and how excited she was about getting to vote in the States for the first time.

I joined a small writing group for motivation to finish my book. The more I write, the more I’m terrified of having anyone I know read it. I’m realizing a number of things: my father is mentally ill. Very seriously mentally ill. I suspected this, but I never thought about it much. Every once in a while someone will say something, usually about someone they suspect to be mentally ill, and I will have a glimmer of a memory but I squelch it. As I write down the details of incidents that occurred in my household, I have to face them and admit what was going on. I have heard through only semi-reliable sources that two of my father’s siblings and his nephew (my cousin) were diagnosed with schizophrenia. That cousin lived with us briefly when I was about four years old (he was about 15) and there was definitely something wrong with him. He kept removing the batteries in my battery-operated toys and putting them in backwards. He told me repeatedly “This is the right way to put the batteries in” and would act bewildered when I told him he was wrong. If it was a joke, it went on a really long time, because he stayed with us at least a month, and this happened almost every day. He would sneak into my room while I was at preschool and move all my batteries around. That’s my only memory of him. He used a lot of cocaine and was in an institution for a long time and for all I know he still is. In addition to the two siblings that are rumored to be schizophrenic, another one of my father’s siblings changed her name and fled to South America. She abandoned her children and no one knows what became of her. Except for my cousin, these were all deceptively functional people: a doctor, a dentist, a real estate mogul.

My father’s mental illness doesn’t make him less of an abusive prick. I cut all ties with him over seven years ago. There is nothing that could go wrong in my life that he wouldn’t make abysmally worse.

So, the memories are flooding back and I wonder how I turned out semi-reasonable. I also have many of my high school journals (though I destroyed the ones I wrote before age 15) and it’s quite appalling the number of times I was punished for reacting logically to his bad behavior. A lot of this has altered the way I react to social situations and professional situations, the way I interact with strangers, and the ways that men scare me make me nervous.

I am rereading Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy, which is part of my inspiration. I read it for the first time when I was about 18. It is the memoirs of a woman who had a rare form of cancer as a child and the surgery she had as a result left her disfigured. Lucy Grealy died of a heroin overdose in 2002. While I did not have cancer as a child, I had other illnesses that altered my appearance and I went through many of the same experiences. Some of her experiences are so similar to mine that it drains me to read. I was so engrossed in the book last night that I missed my bus stop on the way home from my writer’s group. Unfortunately, that also meant that I missed the last bus, so I could not transfer and had to walk over two miles through the ghetto, doing my best to ignore all the guys who called me “Shawty” and tried to chat me up. Two miles in my uncomfortable shoes with the soles half-off. It took me over an hour because a lot it was uphill, my shoes are in disrepair, and I have very short legs.

But enough of that. It is time for me to cuddle with my cat, crank some David Bowie, and get to 16,000 words.

I'm also kinda jealous of Mr. Bowie. That's a snuggly kitty.

I admit it --I'm jealous of this cat.

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Filed under Depression, fml, Home Life, jerks, writing

Hope in shambles

Today I had the phone interview with the manager at the company that has (once again) been toying with me. I think it went well, except he asked me some very specific questions about Microsoft Excel that I was unable to answer. I was able to answer his questions about conditional formatting, but not the questions about pivot tables. I hope that was acceptable. The pay for this job starts at $14 an hour and it requires 5 years of publishing experience. Jobs of this caliber typically pay $25 to $30 an hour…if not more. When I was hired for my last job, my recruiter told me “I realize that this pay rate is abnormally low, but they know that people will work for it, so they’re not going to budge.” I imagine that this other company holds a similar stance.

The job actually sounds somewhat exciting. They have made a few changes since I last worked there, and there have been some innovations that I would genuinely love to be a part of. I became very nervous when I realized that they want the new hire to begin this Tuesday. That made it much more tangible, more real. My bills are so steep that a $14 an hour job is not enough to save me. My basic bills will not be covered –even if I were to move without accruing any moving expenses, even if I gave up my car. I’m in far too deep.

I had a flexible spending account for medical costs at my last job. I am still eligible for reimbursement. It’s difficult, however to spend money in order to be reimbursed when I don’t have the money to spend in the first place. I sent in my receipts last week, and was expecting a $95 check. I received a $20 check. That $95 would have gotten me out of the red. Weeks ago, I deposited money in my bank account to prevent an overdraft, but I was a few hours too late, apparently. That set off a chain of events and I have been charged $140 in fees just in the past two weeks. That’s more than I made last month. I have not yet deposited the $20, but my current bank balance is -$88. I have fourteen cents in savings. Now I have to call customer service and ask what happened to my extra $75. I have a feeling that they want extra documentation. I wish I didn’t care. I wish that $75 weren’t so damn important. I wish this all didn’t seem so life-or-death, but it does. It fucking does.

Every few hours it seeps in and I become hyperaware of my situation. I’m always aware of it, but most of the time it does not seem real. I have always been able to detach myself from reality to the point where I feel like I’m watching a movie where I am the star. It isn’t really happening. I don’t like it, but I’m powerless as I watch the world interact with me, attack me, reach out to me. And it won’t matter because in my head it isn’t real. I’ll meander around online, looking up resources about panhandling and sleeping on the streets. I remain detached, not even processing it or thinking it through while I do such things. The most mundane activities are always a trigger. I emptied my dishwasher this morning, and as I handled each dish I pictured myself wrapping the clean plates in newsprint to pack away. But after I pack them, where will I put these things? I can’t pay for a storage unit. Although my plates are inexpensive, I don’t want to get rid of them because how will I replace them? I will need plates, just like I will need a bed and somewhere to sit. If I do end up on the streets, I know (hope) it will be only temporary. I can’t get myself to part with things I know I can’t replace. Things I know I need.

My father is a doctor and my mother was a nurse. My father grew up in an impoverished country. I won’t say which one, but it is one of the poorest nations in the world, and my father has known more poverty than anyone who is reading this now. I can come onto this blog and whine all I want about not paying my rent or my car payment, or having to sell my things, or having to go to a soup kitchen, but that’s not real poverty. That’s not what my father’s family went through. He and I do not get along and have not spoken in seven years.

I hate him. I’ve hated him almost as long as I can remember. Sometimes I feel guilty for hating him because I know he has had it rough and perhaps he cannot help the things he does. His upbringing warped him.

He was terribly abusive to both me and my mother. Especially my mother. I don’t want to blame him. He’s hurting. He’s awkward. He doesn’t know how to communicate or express himself. He doesn’t know how to talk and he doesn’t know how to listen. And I don’t think he cares.

I will always remember every hurtful thing he said and every hurtful thing he did. I wrote recently about horrible things said to me in job interviews, and part of me wonders if I somehow project a persona that people want to yell at, belittle, or humiliate. I am more accustomed to cruelty than I am kindness. A friend said to me once “It seems like a lot of people say really awful things to you.” It’s true.

My father always thought I was disgusting and stupid. When I was 13, he physically cornered me and wouldn’t let me walk away as he yelled in my face for nearly 30 minutes telling me over and over that I must be mentally retarded because it was impossible for a normal person to be as stupid as I am. That incident happened in 1992, but it might as well have happened last week. When I was 15, my father yelled at me in front of an entire class because he saw me eat frozen yogurt. He said I was “like a farm animal, always eating.” I couldn’t eat in front of him because he would bring me to tears –even in restaurants. Months after the classroom incident, I ran away from home (however briefly) after he chased me around and whipped at my legs with a belt. Out of all of that I was the one who got sent to a psychiatrist. He told me to change my last name, so that no one would associate him with the retarded girl. He regularly made fun of my face and my voice. He told me that I should never speak again because every word I said made me look more and more stupid. To this day I hate eating in front of people, and I am on a constant quest to prove my intelligence while avoiding conflict. I have a high IQ and a master’s degree, but I would really like a PhD. I don’t have a very good reason for wanting a PhD; I just feel that people would be less likely to treat me like I’m stupid if I have one.

My older brother is a far scarier, more abusive version of our father. The difference is that he didn’t have an upbringing that warped him, at least not any more than I did. There is no excuse for his behavior, and I haven’t spoken to him in nearly five years. If I were to list the litany of crazy, mean-spirited things he has done to me, most people would probably think I was making it up. After all, who is really that cruel, especially to a sibling? Well, my brother is. Two friends of my mother’s observed his behavior towards me and they were absolutely confounded. I suppose one day I will get revenge by writing about his misdeeds in a tell-all book, but until then I’ll just be vague.

But I don’t want revenge. I just don’t want them to win. This, to me, is the worst thing about being poor –the shame of failure. I grew up being treated like a failure, and here I am failing at life. I worked through college and graduate school, put all of my focus on my career in an effort to prove that I could take care of myself and succeed on my own. But I haven’t. They’ve already won, but I’d rather live on the streets than let them find out.

I hope I don’t hate myself for writing this.

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Filed under Depression, Home Life, Materialism, Obstacles