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tw: mentions of abuse, mention of self harm
It's hard to look back on my childhood and remember good times, or really, any times at all. I've repressed a lot, but I do remember the bits that molded me into the broken form I am today.
I grew up in a dysfunctional home. My mom is disabled, and also depressed because she blames herself for 'not being a good enough mother to me' because she can't walk and do the things for me other mothers can. I try to reassure her the best I can, but you know, it's never easy. My dad worked a lot, and it hurts to say but I became very thankful of that fact for many years. It was a lot easier when he wasn't home. My dad grew up physically abused by his stepfather, who was a drunkard. His family was very poor, the kind of poor where you worry if there will even be food on the table poor. Old habits die hard, and my dad inherited some awful habits of his stepfather. He thankfully never hit me, nor was anyone in my family physically abused, but he yelled. He yelled a lot. And when your own father calls you a 'b*tch' when you're 14 years old it kind of sticks with you. A lot of awful things your own parent calls you at such an age just kind of sticks with you for life. My mom is highly religious, so its hard to come to her to this day about my depression, because I'm agnostic. Her answers whenever I feel like this usually consist of 'you need to pray to god more'. I told my mom I swore I'd move out the moment I turned 18. I couldn't take it.
Whenever my dad came home, it was always a guessing game of 'is he in a good mood, or bad mood'. It was anxiety inducing when he'd walk through the door. If it was a good day at work, I was spared of being yelled at. If it was a bad day, I had to stay out of his way as much as I could. The entire house would be on eggshells. To give an example, he would blow up about the most needless of things. I remember I closed the door to my room often, because I would isolate myself so. One night I was drawing, the door to my room closed as usual. My dad came in and yelled at me for it so angrily, telling me he had 'no idea what I could be doing if the door was closed'. I didn't understand what I did wrong, but from that day I never closed the door to my room again. Even when I am visiting my family now, at age 22, I still don't. Another time when I was 16, I received a birthday gift from one of my friends online. I often had to sneak presents my friends got me, as my dad would've probably cut me off from the internet had he found out I made friends there. (He's the kind of parent that believes the internet was full of malicious people, which is true, but I was a smart kid, and I stuck to healthy circles. It's the one thing I'm thankful I did as a child.) One time he got to the mail before I did, and asked who it was from. I lied and said it was a friend I had from school, which got me the pass at first. But he was mad about the fact this friend of mine had spent 60 USD on my birthday gift.
I think my dad was the way he was because of his own abuse, and growing up in poverty. When I was a kid, he would stress so deeply about money, even though we were living comfortable, he was terrified of not having money. He'd still be working even now if he could (he decided to retire due to a heart attack.) He'd let the stress from work and his own stress from life build up, and take it out on me in any form of shouting and cursing he could.
I was bullied a lot back then too, throughout my years to highschool. When I tried to tell my parents, they of course dismissed it. My dad told me to just 'stop being weird'. And that 'tell an adult' when you are bullied is really only helpful half the time. My school faculty would never do anything on the account of bullying unless it was outright physical, so I really just had myself. My days would consist of coming home from school and locking myself away in my room between meals, I'm an artist, so primarily I'd draw...sometimes play video games. Of course because I had no friends in person, I started living on the internet at a young age (13), which of course isn't the safest thing to do unsupervised, but I was a child with difficult problems and no one else, so, there isn't much that could be helped there.
I missed out on a lot of opportunities in school because of the bullying. I didn't participate in any clubs or sports (never been sporty anyway), or any chairties or fundraisers at my schools solely out of both not wanting to be around people who hurt me, but also never helped me. I became a bit spiteful and bitter after all of the bullying, the 'why should I help them when they don't ever help me?' mentality at my school's fundraisers. I based my entire worth of existence on my grades. I was a straight-A kid for a while. And that was the one thing I knew earned praise from both my parents. If I made good grades, they would praise me, and I lived off of that. Whenever I made a poor grade it would destroy me. I wasn't diagnosed with depression till I was about 15, but I had definitely had many signs before then I hadn't realized until I was. Getting help was extremely difficult, because my parents are both a bit old fashioned, they don't really grasp the idea of mental illness or therapy at all. They always tried to tell me I'd be 'strapped to some bed' or sent to a ward. Before I was diagnosed and medicated I had this habit of staring off into space. So much so that it was kind of concerning. It started to affect my work and thus my grades. Crashing down the support system I made from living off the praise of letters on paper. Basically, at age 15 it just became more and more difficult to hide. I would cry a lot, sometimes even spontaneously from just feeling bad. Throughout middle school and a little highschool I'd sometimes hide somewhere during classes and cry for no other reason than hoping someone would find me and comfort me somehow. Nothing like that ever happened of course. I only got help because I finally blew up on a teacher that I was feeling s*****l when she was giving me a hard time. Because I was a minor she had to report this.
The shame I felt after my parents were dragged in was immense. So immense I can't remember much of it. I just remember sobbing so much and keeping my gaze to the ground. I couldn't look them in the eyes. I am thankful I finally received treatment and medication from it though. I loved my therapist dearly, and I wish I could go back to therapy so badly. She taught me many good techniques and made me feel human. My medication helped a bit too. I don't really know what my parents felt but I didn't really ask. My dad got just a little better about his behavior, but not much. I think my depression made him realize a bit though. Going to therapy was still stressful, because at first my dad would insist for me to tell him what I told my therapist and get angry when I didn't. He threatened to cut off paying for it many times. After a while he conceded, but he would still ask me when I felt I was 'done' with it so he could stop paying for it. He didn't like spending the money.
I didn't stop therapy till I graduated highschool and thus got my wish of moving out when I was 18. The university I wanted to go to was far from home, and thanks to my grade ethic I got some nice scholarships, so my parents couldn't hold price over my head. I moved out and in with my aunt and have been living with her since. University life was difficult to adjust to because I wasn't bullied there. It confused me a lot, everyone I met was so nice, but because of my trauma I had already accumulated I was terrified of them, I was still terrified of speaking up. I didn't participate in any clubs or activities, both because I'd be too tired (it was a very intense course) and also because I was just terrified. I felt stunted. I couldn't make real friends because I was so used to being bullied that I'd just be terrified to interact at all. I'd come home and cry about this, because I felt like I was missing so many opportunities just because of my fear. I'm still not over this.
Living with my aunt is a lot nicer. She's a progressive woman, more attuned to the fact I am the way I am because of my mental illness and doesn't force me to speak where I don't want to. Living away from my parents also improved my relationship with them whenever I came to visit. My dad is... barely the person he was when I was a kid. He's very kind now and almost never gets mad, I can tell he really wants to do anything he can to help me whenever I come visit but unfortunately the psychological scars are a bit too great. It's still very hard for me to open up to my parents at all, even if things are better now, I'm still overcoming the trauma from years ago.
I tend to think of it as a hurricane. My teenage years I was braving the storm, and it was very violent and relentless...but now as an adult, the storm is over, but the destruction left behind is still around me, and I have to clean it up. And cleaning it up, the healing, is a lot of work in itself.
With growing up comes a lot of new hurdles, and I really wish I could go back to therapy for this healing I need, but a lot of factors in life are preventing that right now. (I'd like an in person therapist, but the uncertainty in where I may be relocated for a job keeps me from getting one.) I mentioned in my newcomer post a grand issue of mine currently is my social/emotional isolation I suffer from because of my depression. I grew up isolated in my room, with little to no friends in person, because of that it has created a lot of abandonment and attachment issues. I have intense social anxiety and interacting with people in front of me is 10 times harder than behind a screen. I still naturally shy away from human contact out of fear, yet desire it deeply, It's a bit of a paradox.
The 'healing' period is just so hard. Because I'm stuck trying not to relapse or be weighed down by my trauma I have already been through, but am still affected by. I have friends who are so dear to me now, but because of my trauma I shy away from them, no matter how kind and gentle they treat me, I'm terrified of upsetting them.
I don't think anyone will read this, and I don't mind if you do. It's very kind of you to put your time into reading this. I'm just so lonely, and I don't like venting to my friends because I hate to burden people I care about. More than anything I just don't want to burden them, and suffering in silence is easier.
I wish I could say more than thank you, but...thank you. For taking the time in my meager existence.