I feel really kind of dumb right now. My life narrative has always been that I am the problem. Unplanned pregnancy. Attitude problem. Impossible to discipline. The one child with a different father. The one who rejected my family's religion. The one with failed relationships and ugly break ups. The one who dabbles with drugs and alcohol. The one who longs for death more days in the year than not. The one in and out of therapy with chronic depression.
Speaking of which, why the fuck couldn't any of the, what, 8?, therapist that I saw over the last 20 years tell me "hey kid, maybe you have shit self esteem because your parents enforce that."?
Only now, in my mid 20s am I coming to the stark realization my parents were unintentionally abusive. Not every day, not every moment. But it was consistent. I'm honestly boggled at how I never put it together. Every single person I've considered a good friend or a close friend has also been traumatized by violent acts or emotionally abusive words from their parents. I have over half of the symptoms of someone with a traumatic childhood. And yet... My parents never starved me. They always had a reason when they beat me. They gave me toys and encouraged me to learn and grow. So how could they be abusive?
Even now I still feel really uncomfortable with that word. Abuse. Is it because I don't want to identify as a victim? Is it because it feels too extreme? By all accounts, it makes sense. The few people I've shared specific memories with say it's abuse, or at least over the top. But calling it abuse feels something like crying wolf. Yes, my parents were strict. Yes, I was very sheltered. But they love me. They did and they do. Is my age showing? Am I being a delicate little flower who couldn't withstand a wallop when I was naughty? A thin skinned snowflake that couldn't withstand a misguided or harsh word? I hate to think of myself that way, certainly.
But then just when I want to brush it off, I remember. Oh fucking christ I remember. It's like I had forgotten. I always knew things that happened. But it was so far away, like something I'd heard about in the news while cooking dinner. But now I just remember the seething rage and the hatred and how much I bitterly despised them. Anger made me who I am today. And I thought I had mellowed out as I aged. But perhaps I only numbed out. And that feeling, well, that can't be the healthy normal, now can it?
I have this itch like in my chest. And it's like the only way for me to scratch it is if someone were to sit down and tell me that I'm being dramatic and my parents were great and I'm ungrateful. Because what's the alternative?? Accept it and what? Call my parents out? The folks who were ACTUALLY abused with beatings and molestation and starvation? That will go over great. "Hey mom I know baby sitters used you as an ashtray but you said some mean things that wounded my ego as a child and it was abusive so you're a bad person and failure as a parent." Live on and pretend nothing is wrong while knowing I'm emotionally stunted because of them? Not happening. Disappear? Never speak to them again? And break their hearts for never knowing why I cut them out?
I don't know. And I really struggle to understand why it took me forever to see this.
But I think I understand now why looking at baby pictures makes me cry.