There has always been a disconnect between the family of my childhood and me. Always! My youngest memories of my mother are not of a woman who took an interest (of any kind) in spending time with me. She did not take me onto her lap much (at all?) She didn't help me learn to ride a bike. She didn't read to me before bed, nor cut out special time for me. She did state that i had a concussion at 6 weeks old, and again at 6 months old. "Bouncing Bonnie", she said the doctor called me.
My father, when i was very young (from conscious memory, which began before age 3 for me) did, at one time, take me on his lap. That is, until my sister was born. I don't recall exactly what happened after that, other than hearing so many comments by my parents about how she cried for them every time they left her (this was endearing to them). She was and remains my dad's favorite. It was very obvious to me in many hurtful ways over the years. I can't compete with bonding over a beer at football games, that's for certain (not that I was ever asked to attend with him, -I wasnt, and I don't drink so there's that.) My parents attended my gymnastics meet when I was a child,...once. It was a regional meet, and it was the only one they attended. Ever. I was in gymnastics for years; multiple seasons, multiple meets. Many were 10 minutes from our home. Enough said.
I am a survivor of head injuries as an infant. I am a survivor of name calling (my dad called me a "witch" when I was about 12 years old; it occurred when he and my mom were in one of their many fights, and I had the misfortune of being in a spat with my sister, his favorite, the result being I was a "witch." With one word, my heart was crushed by my father. He lamely apologized by trying to give me a stuffed monkey which my mother later told me was hers, to hurt both him AND me, to see that she could knock him down in my eyes, even though it came at my expense.)
I am a survivor of a turbulent childhood filled with parents fighting often and loud and, at times, violently. My dad had scratch marks on him. A knife was used to threaten. Furniture was dragged out of our home. Spaghetti was thrown against a wall. Names were called and tears were cried. I ended up with stomach at age 10, and still suffer from them greatly to this day. I am 51 now.
I am a survivor of chaos. My older brother ran away twice, -once to Michigan and once to Florida. My father once went to pick him up a state away (where my brother attended airline mechanic school), but when my dad got there, my brother was too drunk to come home (he was supposed to bar tend for a function my parents were to attend). My dad left him there and drove right back home, a nearly 4 hour drive. Only, he was so tired from the time spent on the road that he fell asleep and his car went off the road into a field. My younger brother, then a young teen, was in the car with him. God was merciful; they were unharmed. That same older brother has gone through periods of substance addiction, and done other despicable things that have continued to haunt me. He is hateful and hurtful. He is my mother's very favorite. She kept him up past bed time when we were younger. I was not allowed. In one of her many fights with my dad, plans to see Kenny Rogers fell apart. I offered to join her (because I liked Kenny). She informed me my brother would be going. Ouch! My brother has done so many hurtful things to other people. He wears hate as a wall, to keep others out, to hide away from his anxiety, his depression, his shortcomings. And he doesn't hesitate to full-on attack when it suits him. He manipulates as needed. I stood by him through YEARS of crap. Yet, when it suited him, he threw my parents under the bus, telling me that they would talk negatively about me in my absence "while I defended you", he said, in reference to our choices to homeschool, or to live out our faith as we do, or to raise our children the way we have. His intent, telling me how they speak of me in my absence, was both a betrayal of my parents on his part and an attempt to hurt me. He throws grenades and walks away. For their part, if I confronted them, my parents would completely deny ever saying anything negative about me. They don't own their mistakes (ever!), yet hold me accountable to the elephant they leave in the room. There have been so many elephants over the years. I used to carry them away, just so my parents would "like" me. They never did. They don't now. The only difference is, they can't force me to carry the elephant now. I won't. I never should have.
I am a survivor of chaos. Of my sibling running away in the night, or urinating in the corner of our dining room while drunk. Yet for that sibling's birthday, there was a mother-child shopping trip to the mall for new clothes (I remember the new red coat). I got epsom salts for my birthday. For real. My sibling got their hearts. I got their despise. Odd how parents can divvy it up. I'm the Marilyn Munster of my family. How dare I not urinate in the corner; not throw up on the bedroom dresser; not run away, not live with the friend whose room was a black dungeon of "S&M", a path that led to suicide How dare I not have an affair with my spouse's sibling's spouse, which also resulted in suicide (the second in that poor family). How dare I not conform. How dare I live outside that box.
My mother didn't want me to speak to my own children that day about their behavior. We were late in returning, and was she upset?She had already talked to them about any misbehavior while we were gone, and thus how dare I, their mother, attempt to do anything more. I spoke to my youngest child first about something that, while a minor infraction, was still a character training issue that we choose to work on with our children. Then I spoke to my daughter, who was the other child involved. That's where my mom drew a bitter line. How dare I speak to her. "This isn't right!", my mom spoke in disgust of me under her breath. And then....she walked away. I was not allowed to respond. She was allowed to contradict me to my children, to confuse the message to them, to pit me against them with her words, to belittle my authority as their mother, but I was NOT allowed to respond. She shut me down by walking away. "Silence!" Another elephant in the room. And I fell apart. It was the Pandora's box moment where the chaos and pain of my entire life was now going to run down hill into my children's lives, all because "the" authority (my mom) had spoken and I had not fallen in defeat. She was allowed to do this to me. I, however, was not to respond. "I am your MOTHER!", she shouted at me. And mother, I am your very grown, 49 year old adult child. I am not that little girl you chose to ignore.
She intended, by walking away from me, to put the elephant in the room and, as always, expected me to take it out. Only, I would not and could not. Not.This.Time.
My father, when i was very young (from conscious memory, which began before age 3 for me) did, at one time, take me on his lap. That is, until my sister was born. I don't recall exactly what happened after that, other than hearing so many comments by my parents about how she cried for them every time they left her (this was endearing to them). She was and remains my dad's favorite. It was very obvious to me in many hurtful ways over the years. I can't compete with bonding over a beer at football games, that's for certain (not that I was ever asked to attend with him, -I wasnt, and I don't drink so there's that.) My parents attended my gymnastics meet when I was a child,...once. It was a regional meet, and it was the only one they attended. Ever. I was in gymnastics for years; multiple seasons, multiple meets. Many were 10 minutes from our home. Enough said.
I am a survivor of head injuries as an infant. I am a survivor of name calling (my dad called me a "witch" when I was about 12 years old; it occurred when he and my mom were in one of their many fights, and I had the misfortune of being in a spat with my sister, his favorite, the result being I was a "witch." With one word, my heart was crushed by my father. He lamely apologized by trying to give me a stuffed monkey which my mother later told me was hers, to hurt both him AND me, to see that she could knock him down in my eyes, even though it came at my expense.)
I am a survivor of a turbulent childhood filled with parents fighting often and loud and, at times, violently. My dad had scratch marks on him. A knife was used to threaten. Furniture was dragged out of our home. Spaghetti was thrown against a wall. Names were called and tears were cried. I ended up with stomach at age 10, and still suffer from them greatly to this day. I am 51 now.
I am a survivor of chaos. My older brother ran away twice, -once to Michigan and once to Florida. My father once went to pick him up a state away (where my brother attended airline mechanic school), but when my dad got there, my brother was too drunk to come home (he was supposed to bar tend for a function my parents were to attend). My dad left him there and drove right back home, a nearly 4 hour drive. Only, he was so tired from the time spent on the road that he fell asleep and his car went off the road into a field. My younger brother, then a young teen, was in the car with him. God was merciful; they were unharmed. That same older brother has gone through periods of substance addiction, and done other despicable things that have continued to haunt me. He is hateful and hurtful. He is my mother's very favorite. She kept him up past bed time when we were younger. I was not allowed. In one of her many fights with my dad, plans to see Kenny Rogers fell apart. I offered to join her (because I liked Kenny). She informed me my brother would be going. Ouch! My brother has done so many hurtful things to other people. He wears hate as a wall, to keep others out, to hide away from his anxiety, his depression, his shortcomings. And he doesn't hesitate to full-on attack when it suits him. He manipulates as needed. I stood by him through YEARS of crap. Yet, when it suited him, he threw my parents under the bus, telling me that they would talk negatively about me in my absence "while I defended you", he said, in reference to our choices to homeschool, or to live out our faith as we do, or to raise our children the way we have. His intent, telling me how they speak of me in my absence, was both a betrayal of my parents on his part and an attempt to hurt me. He throws grenades and walks away. For their part, if I confronted them, my parents would completely deny ever saying anything negative about me. They don't own their mistakes (ever!), yet hold me accountable to the elephant they leave in the room. There have been so many elephants over the years. I used to carry them away, just so my parents would "like" me. They never did. They don't now. The only difference is, they can't force me to carry the elephant now. I won't. I never should have.
I am a survivor of chaos. Of my sibling running away in the night, or urinating in the corner of our dining room while drunk. Yet for that sibling's birthday, there was a mother-child shopping trip to the mall for new clothes (I remember the new red coat). I got epsom salts for my birthday. For real. My sibling got their hearts. I got their despise. Odd how parents can divvy it up. I'm the Marilyn Munster of my family. How dare I not urinate in the corner; not throw up on the bedroom dresser; not run away, not live with the friend whose room was a black dungeon of "S&M", a path that led to suicide How dare I not have an affair with my spouse's sibling's spouse, which also resulted in suicide (the second in that poor family). How dare I not conform. How dare I live outside that box.
My mother didn't want me to speak to my own children that day about their behavior. We were late in returning, and was she upset?She had already talked to them about any misbehavior while we were gone, and thus how dare I, their mother, attempt to do anything more. I spoke to my youngest child first about something that, while a minor infraction, was still a character training issue that we choose to work on with our children. Then I spoke to my daughter, who was the other child involved. That's where my mom drew a bitter line. How dare I speak to her. "This isn't right!", my mom spoke in disgust of me under her breath. And then....she walked away. I was not allowed to respond. She was allowed to contradict me to my children, to confuse the message to them, to pit me against them with her words, to belittle my authority as their mother, but I was NOT allowed to respond. She shut me down by walking away. "Silence!" Another elephant in the room. And I fell apart. It was the Pandora's box moment where the chaos and pain of my entire life was now going to run down hill into my children's lives, all because "the" authority (my mom) had spoken and I had not fallen in defeat. She was allowed to do this to me. I, however, was not to respond. "I am your MOTHER!", she shouted at me. And mother, I am your very grown, 49 year old adult child. I am not that little girl you chose to ignore.
She intended, by walking away from me, to put the elephant in the room and, as always, expected me to take it out. Only, I would not and could not. Not.This.Time.
My mother pridefully spoke of how my sister's child could get away with things with my sister and her husband "but not with me. He listens to me when *I* tell him." She gave her opinions where she should have held them, including on that day in front of my children; she was not a perfect mother. She set weak boundaries for us. She allowed favorites to be played in our home. She was distant. Prideful. She gossiped about one of us to the next. Gossiped or betrayed trust. She shifted. She avoided. She refused to acknowledge. She only apologized to me once, EVER (she was just that "right" in her mind, apparently). Yet, how dare I address my own children as I see fit. How dare I have expectations or hold boundaries for them as their mother.
I survived the chaos. Drunkenness. Bitterness. Favoritism. I survived it, but it definitely crippled me. I lack clarity to this day; I second guess. I seek approval when I shouldn't. I avoid confrontation where it needs to occur. I shut down. I distrust. I cry, still. I am 51, but I'm a little girl, still, who continues to feel the disconnect. And still takes the hit instead of hitting back.
Today, I learned that I am not in their will for the division of their home value. My three other siblings are. They have cut me out. It comes as absolutely no surprise to me what-so-ever. I've said that this would be the case, and it is. And it hurts, as they intended it would. Only, I don't fall. I stand, strengthened by the sheer force of will that it took to survive my childhood. I stand without their approval, without their support. And I am thankful that they have lost the element of spiteful surprise which they counted on upon their deaths. I survived cancer without them. And so much more. There is so much more to tell. And I will. I held the secrets of our dysfunction for my entire life. I protected them when they didn't protect me. I tried to live by the fifth commandment, even planning to make a home for them here when that day of need for assisted living arrived. I am not perfect. I am flawed, and I have made my own mistakes and have hurt others as well. Even so, I *was* a good daughter, but... It was all in vain. But there are no more elephants for me to excuse, nor to carry out. Only the burden of brokenness. And I have been carrying that for a very. long. time. I post it here not to shame them, but to release it from ME. I deserve to be free. To be independent of the despise. To live outside the box they tried to keep me in. To have an uninterrupted voice. And I have continued to love my family in spite of everything. I am a good person and a good daughter. It's sad for both of us that they never genuinely cared to know. Philippians 4:13
I survived the chaos. Drunkenness. Bitterness. Favoritism. I survived it, but it definitely crippled me. I lack clarity to this day; I second guess. I seek approval when I shouldn't. I avoid confrontation where it needs to occur. I shut down. I distrust. I cry, still. I am 51, but I'm a little girl, still, who continues to feel the disconnect. And still takes the hit instead of hitting back.
Today, I learned that I am not in their will for the division of their home value. My three other siblings are. They have cut me out. It comes as absolutely no surprise to me what-so-ever. I've said that this would be the case, and it is. And it hurts, as they intended it would. Only, I don't fall. I stand, strengthened by the sheer force of will that it took to survive my childhood. I stand without their approval, without their support. And I am thankful that they have lost the element of spiteful surprise which they counted on upon their deaths. I survived cancer without them. And so much more. There is so much more to tell. And I will. I held the secrets of our dysfunction for my entire life. I protected them when they didn't protect me. I tried to live by the fifth commandment, even planning to make a home for them here when that day of need for assisted living arrived. I am not perfect. I am flawed, and I have made my own mistakes and have hurt others as well. Even so, I *was* a good daughter, but... It was all in vain. But there are no more elephants for me to excuse, nor to carry out. Only the burden of brokenness. And I have been carrying that for a very. long. time. I post it here not to shame them, but to release it from ME. I deserve to be free. To be independent of the despise. To live outside the box they tried to keep me in. To have an uninterrupted voice. And I have continued to love my family in spite of everything. I am a good person and a good daughter. It's sad for both of us that they never genuinely cared to know. Philippians 4:13
