Archive for November, 2012

I am utterly clueless how to give a handjob or blow job. I know it may seem silly for me to be worrying over something like this when just over Thanksgiving break my grandma died and my mother slipped into another episode that she is still trying to shake off. But really this is what worries me now. At eighteen years old I am still a virgin. It hasn’t been from lack of people interested in me… I was a late bloomer since I was always focused on my family. I dated one person for about six months in my junior year of high school but we never progressed very far in our relationship. And I have had casual flings with a few other friends, but never made it too far there either. Family always came first.

Over the break, a friend of mine took me on a date. He claims to be very interested in me, though due to his past I doubt that. Anyways, things got a bit heated in his car later on. I wasn’t feeling too good so sex was out of the question. But he wanted a bit of help taking care of what I stirred up. Since he and I are so close I wouldn’t mind something between us, but that night I left him to take care of it himself… simply because I didn’t know how and didn’t feel like embarrassing myself.

I have always been too independent and too prideful for my own good. I hate being naive and innocent. I have no emotional attachment to my first time, just a hatred of feeling embarrassed that stems from the fact that I never ask for help. It’s just not how I grew up.

I always just up and did for myself what I needed. But this… involves two people.

Sometimes I like to sit in the park while children are playing, not for the kids, but to see the loving looks of moms as they see their babies happy. Sometimes I can’t help but grin from ear to ear when I see a mom comforting a crying elementary student, because I know once their mom “kisses it better” it will do a lot more than neosporin and a bandaid ever could. When I picked up my sister from track practice every day, I loved parking near the other cars because more often than not I could see a mom that came early just to try and get a peek of their kid running. Maternal feelings hold more beauty for me than anything I can think of.

I want to be a mom more than anything. In a way, I already am, having raised myself, my sister, and my bipolar mother, but it’s just not the same. I loved babysitting and playing with kids and they loved me too. I know that what I want more than anything is to shower love on several children of my own, but I don’t think that will ever happen. I’m simply too afraid. I will never give birth to a child because bipolar disorder is genetic and I refuse to risk passing that on to a child. It feels selfish. I could never forgive myself if my child turned out to have bipolar disorder. Adoption could be my miracle, if I weren’t convinced that I will develop bipolar disorder when I’m older. I’m not saying that bipolar parents are bad parents, I’m merely saying that the way bipolar disorder manifested itself in my mother made it so that her own children don’t consider her a parent. I don’t want to continue the cycle and give an innocent kid the childhood I had.

To me a mom is a warm hug, someone you can always rely on and someone you know will always love you. People ask me why I don’t consider my mother to be a parent and that is because her hugs are full of desperation and selfish feelings – she only wants to make herself feel loved or useful as a parent. My mother has never been someone I could rely on – her problems come first, her emotions are too unstable to handle any problems I might come to her with, she makes things worse by overreacting, and anything I tell her will eventually be thrown back in my face or twisted around. And I can never count on my mother to love me. Some days, she tries to kill herself because she is too ashamed of me and wishes I were never born. Other days, she disowns me and tells me I’m not her child. I wake up every morning knowing full well that I might not be considered her daughter by the end of the night. I’m not talking about the typical mother actions that she didn’t perform like taking us to sport practices or cooking dinner. That’s an entirely different story. The feelings were what mattered to me and my mother is incapable of maternal feelings.

Anytime her kids come to her for help, she quickly turns the situation into “poor mom” whose life is oh so bad. She cannot think of her child’s welfare over her own even when her children are desperate. The most current example of this is my brother. If y’all read my previous post. Then you understand the emotional damage and need for counseling that my brother suffers from and how he came home to humbly seek the help he needed. However, my mom doesn’t view things the same way. I spent  my weekend listening to her rant about how my brother “needs to be locked up” in a mental hospital to “see what the real world is like”. And hearing how she “never destroyed the house like that”, when, in fact, my mother destroying the house is, at the very least, a monthly occurrence. She then burst into tears, crying out that she was a victim and then angrily shouting “how dare he say that I abused him, he doesn’t know what abuse is”. From there, she would launch into stories of how awful her childhood was. Not once did she stop to think: My son has an emotional problem and needs help to make it through this tough time. Not once did she worry for her son’s sake. Instead, she renounced him as a child, viewing him instead as a rabid animal. All she could think of was how she could earn pity for herself.

I know what a real mother should feel because I have these feelings on a daily basis whenever I think of my little sister. I beam with pride at the mention of her and can’t help but go into information overload when she comes up in conversation. I remember my pride as she took on her first babysitting gig and the gentle nudges I’d give her to overcome her shyness. I remember my elation when she finally felt comfortable going up to a counter and purchasing things on her own. I remember joining the ranks of those mothers I so admire, showing up early to practice to try and catch a glimpse of her hard at work, running on the track. I anticipate those important moments in her life, such as graduation and prom. I want her to be proud of herself and happy in life. And most importantly of all, I always want to protect her. I just want what’s best for her.

I visit my friends’ moms often. I never quite figured out whether that is because I subconsciously seek a real parent or because I just enjoy their company. It’s probably a little of both. I know I’m at an age when most people are still relying heavily on their parents for advice and guidance, but I have found that the number of people coming to me for help in those areas has only increased since I started college. People even call me the ‘dorm mom’ on occasion, because I will always take care of those in need. I have the habit of carrying home drunk girls and I always step up to the plate whenever anyone needs a comforting hug and sit by their side all night when they are sick. Some have misconstrued my excessive caring as signs that I am lesbian, which is hilarious, but wrong. Taking care of my sister and these young women who are just learning to live on their own is probably the closest I will ever come to being a mom.

So I just want to say thank you, to all you moms out there for bringing so much beauty and love to the world. And to showing me what true dedication is, because in no way is it easy to devote your entire being to another person. The ideals of  “Republican Motherhood“, though maybe not the best for political usage, ring true in that the mothers of our children shape our world. They way they raise our youth determines our future as a society. Stay strong and carry on, because each and every one of y’all are making our world a better place.

It was my brother’s temper that exploded today… though from the looks of the place it could have just as easily been a bomb or robbers ransacking the house.

view from staircase

My brother always had trouble finding a way to deal with his feelings. Once, he got so angry at my mother that he punched his arm through the car door window…just because it was there. He is lucky to be able to use that arm.

Other people may see the damage he caused and wonder why anybody would stand for that. They don’t see that he is a scared, lost and lonely little twenty year old, verbally abused throughout his childhood. Recently he even found college to be too much for him, either emotionally or through the work load. He is dropping out, but that leaves him even more lost in the world than before. My brother is horribly damaged and needs help.

The best chance for that is to stay near our parents, because my father can help him and really we are all he has. The downside to that is he WILL NOT get better by being at home, and so cannot stay in the house. Mother dearest is the reason we are all so messed up to begin with. Her bipolar disorder narrows her train of thought to what she is feeling and how events affect her. She is literally incapable of thinking of our well being long enough to be a parent at all.

For instance, a year or two ago, the only stable thing in my brother’s life turned on him. His girlfriend of over two years had been cheating on him with his best friend. It may not seem like much to most people, but for him, she was the one thing he could count on because every other factor of his life was unpredictable and traumatic. This was what broke the camel’s back. He spiraled downward and pretty soon came home, humble and asking for help. At that point he was suicidal and my mother threw herself into the role of ‘loving mother’, smothering him with unwanted attention. That lasted about a day before she was screaming at him for being ungrateful for everything she did for him. The woman literally was incapable of being there for someone in their time of need without turning it into all about her. She was OBVIOUSLY mistreated and poor mommy is obviously so unloved  by her family that she does so much for that she feels the need to go kill herself again. She made the whole situation so much worse than it was and couldn’t, for the life of her, be there for her hurting child who crawled home asking for help.

Today was no different. When I called her today, she was sobbing and telling me how she a victim. She also threw her anger around, declaring that my brother had no idea what abuse was. She started going into her childhood, which to be honest was not so different from ours. She is just incapable of seeing that. My mother became the next link in the child abuse cycle, and she refuses to believe it.

My brother told me that today  he wrote off our mother as a parent. I agreed because I can’t remember a time past age 9 where I considered her a parent.

Things today were pretty messy. My brother ended up having to meet the sheriffs and the EMTs at a grocery store parking lot because he refused to go home. My brother is so damaged and it kills me inside that I have no magic way to fix him. It kills me inside that he had no chance from the start. It kills me that his road to recovery will likely be traumatic as well due to my mother’s involvement.

I love him with all my heart, my broken-hearted brother.

My father sacrificed his children.

There is no doubt that my siblings and I are all pretty fucked up. My mother is the reason.

There is also no doubt that my father constantly chose the welfare of my mother over ours. Because placating her always held a life or death significance; the slightest misstep sent her careening towards another suicide attempt while the kids always lived to see another day.

In effect, my father stood by as she emotionally tore us apart, siding with her in almost every argument He constantly told us to just go along with her. He told us to just sit through it. He told us to not get mad at her.

A young child sat, small and scared, cornered in her closet, listening to the person she loved the most scream horrible things to her. The child was fat, even though you could count her ribs. The child’s curly hair was atrocious she’d never be liked. The child was such a horrible person that her mother claimed to want to kill herself rather than be her parent. The child was uncoordinated – she should just give up already on her passion of volleyball! The child was useless, stupid, and a waste of space. The child’s naturally friendly demeanor and kind outreach to others was embarrassing and socially unacceptable. The child was obviously plotting against the mother, trying to make her life miserable. The child was a lazy piece of shit. Despite the fact that the child had countless friends, her mother considered her a socially awkward failure; in reality the child just feared displaying her social life in front of her mother: another vulnerability to be used as ammo. The mother tore apart her child’s character on a daily basis.

The child sat in silence, no emotion passed her face. No tear escaped her impassive front. She tried to erase any feelings from her mind as well. Quite simply, she was not allowed to have feelings, for having feelings meant killing her mother. Having feelings meant causing problems for the family. The young girl never once complained and almost never mentioned it to her father, even when things got physical. It would only cause him stress and produce no results. It was the responsibility of the young girl as a mentally sound member of the family to control her mind where her mother could not, to sacrifice herself.

By the time I was eleven years old, my mother had convinced me that the world would be better if I was dead.

And through it all the father either was not present or only chose to stop the proceedings when they threatened to get violent. Sometimes when he could really see how much pain his kids were in, he would step up and send them upstairs, taking the anger himself. I always understood why he made the choices he did. I never once blamed him even though it often made me sad. I even relied on his prioritization of my mother above us. It meant that even though I generally chose to protect my sister, I didn’t have to worry about my mom dying because when things were that serious he would usually be there to take care of her. It knocked a burden off of my shoulders and in a way, I think we both viewed this unspoken division of responsibility as teamwork. I understood that his choices were life or death for my mother. I understood that without us, she would probably kill herself within a few days and if she managed to live, she would never find people to love or anybody who loved her. She was, quite simply, too bat-shit crazy and would be doomed to live out the rest of her life without the basic human need of affection and interaction. Sad and forever alone.

When I was seventeen, I finally found a choice of my father’s that I didn’t understand. I was a senior in high school, looking at colleges and dreading the day I might leave my sister with nobody there to help her, take care of her, and protect her. I presented many ideas to my father on alternate living situations for my sister. He shot down every single one of them, and although he pointed out valid flaws, they were something to work with. He gave me vague agreements when I declared the current situation intolerable. Though I gave him plenty of time, he never contributed a single idea. When I confronted him about this, the man showed his true colors.

“I know things aren’t great here but she is only fifteen and still needs her parents.”

With this, he showed his fear to change the status quo. His inability to take action. His self-delusion that we really were a happy family. He showed that he was too worn down to save us, much less himself. He was pitiful. And he proved me wrong. I had always thought that if I ever actually asked him for help, or anything really, he would be there for me since I had always been there for him, never once complaining. His own children were crying out for a safe living environment and he wouldn’t even step up to the plate. Isn’t that a basic human right? One that he deprived his kids of, for he was the only one with the power to provide it. My sister didn’t need a mother who would verbally abuse her on a daily basis and a father that would allow it to happen. To my sister, I represented her mother figure and her best friend. Our ‘parents’ were never such.

I love my father with all my heart. In this morally gray life we live, I can’t tell you the difference between right and wrong. Is the life of the mother more important than the mental health of her spawn?