Depression
Sorry for the lack of creative post title. Lately I've sunk into a deep depression that doesn't seem to be lifting anytime soon. Blame the hormones, blame the pregnancy for making it more difficult as I already have an anxiety disorder to deal with- however I do think much of this depression comes from the changing/lack of real relationship with my family as I explore the depths of my memory and realize it's not all pretty.
I'm coming to terms with it. Slowly, but surely. My husband is encouraging me to have at least my parents know when we have our baby so they can meet us at the hospital. I remain apathetic towards that idea, hoping my feelings will change but each and every day I just don't care. I don't care enough to make excuses, to keep smiling, to pretend everything is ok when it's not and I already told them it's not.
My family would be mortified that I am even a regular blogger about my experience with my husband's family and abuse I received. I know this and so I keep this anonymous and hidden from my real life as much as possible. I grew up in a home that probably went to one extreme over another. Both parents having pasts I know little about, kids, marriages that are not discussed in my current FOO. Swept under the rug. I know very little about my birth family as a result. Real substance is hidden away and the face is put on to be righteous, to be Godly, to be 'together' in this aspect. I have never been allowed to challenge that.
It's hard for me to look back on the abuse I believe happened to me as a child through my teenage years, reconciling that with what I know to be outright abuse from the N's in my husband's family. I'm not sure where my family falls in the abuse category. So I remain unsure of what to say or do- besides needing to keep my distance to remain sane right now. They are not narcissists that I can see. They do not have disorders that I am aware of- there is simply a lack of real connection, of respect there. I'm different. I'd like to think so, anyway. Wading through the memories makes it clear that abuse or not- the way I was raised was wrong- was wanting love and compassion- and this is a way I can never imagine repeating with my own child.
When I was a child, parent's weren't concerned with spanking being a taboo subject among parenting. It simply wasn't taboo at all. I was all too familiar with this method of punishment, looking back it was severe though. It didn't work for me so my parents tried harder. My mom in particular. Around the age of four or five I frequently remember pulling my pants down to check for blood after a punishment. The pain didn't affect me, like I mentioned in a comment I took to hiding instruments used under my mattress. I found these years later as we moved yet again to a new place. A stash I'd hidden, maybe in an attempt to simply be spanked with a hand instead of something harder. Spanking was just the tip of what I experienced though.
My parents tried everything and anything on me, and I somewhat understand this being a nanny myself for years. I know how hard it is to refrain from saying/doing something you'll regret as a parent. Sometimes kids are absolutely maddening and push the limits just to test them. This is a normal part of growing up but I believe now there are simply better, more loving ways of dealing with punishment than what I went through. When spanking no longer worked and I outgrew that punishment, my things were taken. Or destroyed.
I also mentioned this in a comment but thought to post it here as well. My mom would often fly into fits of rage and storm into my room and break whatever she could find that was mine. That would break. Fans, boxes, containers for my toys, my dolls, my snow globes, my figurines. Anything. I remember she stomped and smashed to bits a wooden painted mobile my grandma had given me on a trip to the Bahamas. It was so special to me I kept the pieces. The bits of wood with paint clinging to them. I put them in a bag and hoped vainly that someday it would be mended, I'd be able to fix it. I never did. I still have the pieces though. To me, destroying a child's things are beyond punishment. It speaks of an anger issue that I can't fathom as a mom to be. Where were the times she simply went into her room to cool off? There weren't any times like that I can remember. I was yelled at, screamed at. Hit repeatedly. Often these episodes would go on for hours or until my dad came home.
This behavior from them only escalated as I got older. I remember being yelled at, screamed at really, for things that don't make sense to me now. Not wanting to go to church, not wanting to be 'involved', my parents would (and still DO) attribute this lack of involvement for all the ills in my life. For the depression I experienced throughout my preteen and teen years. For the way I would feel- alone and neglected- it was all my fault. I wasn't praying enough I wasn't living with 'fruit' in my life that the spirit was in me enough. The cure? Load me up with Bible courses and school books that were supposed to help me see the error in my ways. They only made me hate the scriptures. Even now anything that is wrong with my personal life is attributed to the fact I don't go to their church or a church they know of. I'm constantly shown articles and information in hopes of what- trying to help me??? Do they realize they've never listened? I was in college before I took matters into my own hands and saw the problem in the sexual abuse I had experienced (which they know nothing about) and sought counseling and medication to help with anxiety and PTSD. I was in college before I got the help I needed for myself. Of course I didn't tell my family anything about this. They would have seen it as a slap in the face to them, personally.
The more bizarre instances of abuse I can think of is one time where I was physically fighting my parents, my mom in particular when I was about 12 years old, maybe 13. I can't remember as I can't remember much from this time at all. For some reason she was trying to drag me up the steps by my hair, threatening to cut it off. I have no idea why. I've blocked out that memory other than that. The same day or shortly after I also remember my mom telling my dad to take me downtown to show me where I would live someday. Maybe I would learn my lesson if I saw the prostitutes there. She told me I was worthless and would end up sleeping with other men I was not married to if I went on being- what? 13?? I honestly can't remember anything about that time other than my anger towards life- towards my parents for the way I had been treated for years til then. It was my breaking point for sure.
I have not seen that kind of behavior shown to my little sister, to my older sister, or anyone else in the family. My dad hit me so hard I still have a picture of my arm in a makeshift sling (I made it myself of course because I was afraid of asking to be taken to a doctor for the sprain or whatever was causing the bruising after he hit me). In that picture I had a smile on my face. I remember going to my sister's music recital like this. Avoiding looks and explanations of why I was hurt.
My past has led me to a great fear of being caged. Contained. That's probably why I've fought so hard against being chained to a live I don't want- again with the N's. A definition I don't want. A person I don't want to be.
I feel cheated and lied to. I want to put as much distance between us as possible. Maybe the apathy towards them is a good thing. The abuse and everything I have gone through have paved the way to unfeeling. I see now that this kind of behavior has only morphed into disrespect for me and my wishes. Regarding privacy and the like- my wants and desires. My goals. They've always been belittled by my family, my mom in particular. She would make fun of my books and stories I'd write in middle school. I never felt encouraged, just criticized and belittled. Being home schooled was a nightmare for me because I didn't get a break from home.
It's no wonder why I'm so confused right now. Heartbroken. Totally apathetic to them. For years I couldn't figure out WHY I had to go through this, the only answer I can see now is that - I never had to. It really was uncalled for and not something I like to remember. It's not my fault. I don't know if I can have a future with them in it. Right now I don't want one. I'm going to have to be ok in taking the time I need to figure this out. To respect myself for once and not let myself give into any old urges to smooth things over when they shouldn't be smoothed over. To, one by one, contradict the lies that have been told about me in my head. To allow myself to be a mess and not worry what the hell anyone thinks. To shut out the voice of my mother always telling me I'm a failure, I need to do this or that or act this way or that way- to need to dress or speak or think any certain way to be Godly- to be embraced by anyone whose love is worth having including my husband's. I'm a mess and that's okay. And guess what, mom? He doesn't care. He loves me anyway. Even when I'm so depressed I can't get out of bed. Even when I get so down I give up on my appearances and making him lunch or breakfast or dinner. He understands. I wish you did too. I'm not any less love-worthy when I'm hurt than I am when I'm pretending. And so I guess I have to let that be- depressed. Like the weather it just IS sometimes and needs to be taken in stride.
I'm coming to terms with it. Slowly, but surely. My husband is encouraging me to have at least my parents know when we have our baby so they can meet us at the hospital. I remain apathetic towards that idea, hoping my feelings will change but each and every day I just don't care. I don't care enough to make excuses, to keep smiling, to pretend everything is ok when it's not and I already told them it's not.
My family would be mortified that I am even a regular blogger about my experience with my husband's family and abuse I received. I know this and so I keep this anonymous and hidden from my real life as much as possible. I grew up in a home that probably went to one extreme over another. Both parents having pasts I know little about, kids, marriages that are not discussed in my current FOO. Swept under the rug. I know very little about my birth family as a result. Real substance is hidden away and the face is put on to be righteous, to be Godly, to be 'together' in this aspect. I have never been allowed to challenge that.
It's hard for me to look back on the abuse I believe happened to me as a child through my teenage years, reconciling that with what I know to be outright abuse from the N's in my husband's family. I'm not sure where my family falls in the abuse category. So I remain unsure of what to say or do- besides needing to keep my distance to remain sane right now. They are not narcissists that I can see. They do not have disorders that I am aware of- there is simply a lack of real connection, of respect there. I'm different. I'd like to think so, anyway. Wading through the memories makes it clear that abuse or not- the way I was raised was wrong- was wanting love and compassion- and this is a way I can never imagine repeating with my own child.
When I was a child, parent's weren't concerned with spanking being a taboo subject among parenting. It simply wasn't taboo at all. I was all too familiar with this method of punishment, looking back it was severe though. It didn't work for me so my parents tried harder. My mom in particular. Around the age of four or five I frequently remember pulling my pants down to check for blood after a punishment. The pain didn't affect me, like I mentioned in a comment I took to hiding instruments used under my mattress. I found these years later as we moved yet again to a new place. A stash I'd hidden, maybe in an attempt to simply be spanked with a hand instead of something harder. Spanking was just the tip of what I experienced though.
My parents tried everything and anything on me, and I somewhat understand this being a nanny myself for years. I know how hard it is to refrain from saying/doing something you'll regret as a parent. Sometimes kids are absolutely maddening and push the limits just to test them. This is a normal part of growing up but I believe now there are simply better, more loving ways of dealing with punishment than what I went through. When spanking no longer worked and I outgrew that punishment, my things were taken. Or destroyed.
I also mentioned this in a comment but thought to post it here as well. My mom would often fly into fits of rage and storm into my room and break whatever she could find that was mine. That would break. Fans, boxes, containers for my toys, my dolls, my snow globes, my figurines. Anything. I remember she stomped and smashed to bits a wooden painted mobile my grandma had given me on a trip to the Bahamas. It was so special to me I kept the pieces. The bits of wood with paint clinging to them. I put them in a bag and hoped vainly that someday it would be mended, I'd be able to fix it. I never did. I still have the pieces though. To me, destroying a child's things are beyond punishment. It speaks of an anger issue that I can't fathom as a mom to be. Where were the times she simply went into her room to cool off? There weren't any times like that I can remember. I was yelled at, screamed at. Hit repeatedly. Often these episodes would go on for hours or until my dad came home.
This behavior from them only escalated as I got older. I remember being yelled at, screamed at really, for things that don't make sense to me now. Not wanting to go to church, not wanting to be 'involved', my parents would (and still DO) attribute this lack of involvement for all the ills in my life. For the depression I experienced throughout my preteen and teen years. For the way I would feel- alone and neglected- it was all my fault. I wasn't praying enough I wasn't living with 'fruit' in my life that the spirit was in me enough. The cure? Load me up with Bible courses and school books that were supposed to help me see the error in my ways. They only made me hate the scriptures. Even now anything that is wrong with my personal life is attributed to the fact I don't go to their church or a church they know of. I'm constantly shown articles and information in hopes of what- trying to help me??? Do they realize they've never listened? I was in college before I took matters into my own hands and saw the problem in the sexual abuse I had experienced (which they know nothing about) and sought counseling and medication to help with anxiety and PTSD. I was in college before I got the help I needed for myself. Of course I didn't tell my family anything about this. They would have seen it as a slap in the face to them, personally.
The more bizarre instances of abuse I can think of is one time where I was physically fighting my parents, my mom in particular when I was about 12 years old, maybe 13. I can't remember as I can't remember much from this time at all. For some reason she was trying to drag me up the steps by my hair, threatening to cut it off. I have no idea why. I've blocked out that memory other than that. The same day or shortly after I also remember my mom telling my dad to take me downtown to show me where I would live someday. Maybe I would learn my lesson if I saw the prostitutes there. She told me I was worthless and would end up sleeping with other men I was not married to if I went on being- what? 13?? I honestly can't remember anything about that time other than my anger towards life- towards my parents for the way I had been treated for years til then. It was my breaking point for sure.
I have not seen that kind of behavior shown to my little sister, to my older sister, or anyone else in the family. My dad hit me so hard I still have a picture of my arm in a makeshift sling (I made it myself of course because I was afraid of asking to be taken to a doctor for the sprain or whatever was causing the bruising after he hit me). In that picture I had a smile on my face. I remember going to my sister's music recital like this. Avoiding looks and explanations of why I was hurt.
My past has led me to a great fear of being caged. Contained. That's probably why I've fought so hard against being chained to a live I don't want- again with the N's. A definition I don't want. A person I don't want to be.
I feel cheated and lied to. I want to put as much distance between us as possible. Maybe the apathy towards them is a good thing. The abuse and everything I have gone through have paved the way to unfeeling. I see now that this kind of behavior has only morphed into disrespect for me and my wishes. Regarding privacy and the like- my wants and desires. My goals. They've always been belittled by my family, my mom in particular. She would make fun of my books and stories I'd write in middle school. I never felt encouraged, just criticized and belittled. Being home schooled was a nightmare for me because I didn't get a break from home.
It's no wonder why I'm so confused right now. Heartbroken. Totally apathetic to them. For years I couldn't figure out WHY I had to go through this, the only answer I can see now is that - I never had to. It really was uncalled for and not something I like to remember. It's not my fault. I don't know if I can have a future with them in it. Right now I don't want one. I'm going to have to be ok in taking the time I need to figure this out. To respect myself for once and not let myself give into any old urges to smooth things over when they shouldn't be smoothed over. To, one by one, contradict the lies that have been told about me in my head. To allow myself to be a mess and not worry what the hell anyone thinks. To shut out the voice of my mother always telling me I'm a failure, I need to do this or that or act this way or that way- to need to dress or speak or think any certain way to be Godly- to be embraced by anyone whose love is worth having including my husband's. I'm a mess and that's okay. And guess what, mom? He doesn't care. He loves me anyway. Even when I'm so depressed I can't get out of bed. Even when I get so down I give up on my appearances and making him lunch or breakfast or dinner. He understands. I wish you did too. I'm not any less love-worthy when I'm hurt than I am when I'm pretending. And so I guess I have to let that be- depressed. Like the weather it just IS sometimes and needs to be taken in stride.
It's okay to not have a relationship with them. You don't have to give more time and energy to people who make you unhappy.
ReplyDeleteWhen the walls come crumbling down, Little One, all *kinds* of stuff comes to the surface, memories repressed or only partially remembered, the stress and anxiety of growing up in this type of FOO unfolds along with the feelings. Why would you *not* feel stressed, depressed, confused etc.? Why? I don't have an answer for you but mine was pretty simple: I was not allowed to Feel my own feelings. Think own thoughts. I was not allowed to question any thing of any substance including family "history." Like your's, all was shoved under the rug and periodically I'd trip over a "bunch" under that rug but I'd best regain my composure and plaster that smile on my face. I was not allowed to just be who I was: I wasn't "acceptable" unless I was able to swallow stuff that was patently not true or partial truths at best. My job was to make the Family "Proud." Somehow, I was never completely successful unless I was an obedient, hoop-jumping "fixer" and that was still conditional based on how well I continued to "fix" the next mess-not-of-my-making: A temporary "Pass" until the "next time." And there was always a "next time." They did not know me because they didn't care to and that was made very, very plain from the time I was just a little one.
ReplyDeleteBess said it best, IMO. Neglect comes in so very many forms, Ms. Gracie: The reality of being "cheated and lied to" is a painful realization. But we can't slam the door shut once the light of reality has permeated. I can assure you your family would like nothing more than to keep that door firmly slammed shut forever.
But I'm betting on you, Ms. G.
TW
Thanks both :)
ReplyDeleteI agree- why do families like these keep so much stuff undiscovered or buried like they do?? I know virtually nothing about my parents pre-children. I want to be open with our son as he grows about our lives before marriage and hopefully that will help him make decisions and be a better person because of it. No skeletons in our closets!