Waking up to the Truth

Ugh. Me up now. Coffee in, still talk like caveman…

Okay, so other than noting that forming full sentences is a bit taxing on my brain this morning, I got some’n’ else bugging me. Goddess, how do I put this without sounding like a complete wanker? I don’t know how, and I suppose what I got to say is pretty wanker-ish, so fair warning to all: this may get nasty.

I find myself jealous this morning of other blogger’s awards. Let me just break this down so we’re clear on just how screwed up this particular reaction is: I didn’t start this blog to get followers. I state that clearly on my ‘about me’ page. This wasn’t supposed to be a popularity thing, or a place where I try to hype my own music or books or poetry or anything else I churn out. I just wanted a place to dump, anonymously. I was startled the first time I got a follower on my blog. Same is true for the first like I got on a post. So why am I feeling this way?

I want to be noticed but not seen. I want to be heard but not identified. I want to be recognized but not exposed.

I know I’m putting myself in a no-win situation. To promote my blog and get more followers, well, I’d need to do things a little differently out here. Make my page jazzier, add pictures and shit like that. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want anyone to know this is me. Maybe someday I’ll feel confident and okay enough with me to say to the world ‘Hey! bp7o9 is me. Surprise!’ but right now I’m not there.

And the somewhat sad thought comes to me that I’m substituting awards (like a blog award) for my never ending need for parental approval. *sigh* That’s probably closer to the truth. It stings enough; that usually means I’m hitting close to the mark.

How the hell do I let go of this? I mean, once and for all never to rear it’s ugly head again let go of it?

Maybe I’ve just gone about this the wrong way. I’ve always fought that part of me, the people pleaser, the little girl who dreamt of her mother leaving her at the supermarket because her mother forgot all about her and found a little boy to be her child (yes, recurring nightmare number 2 in my life). Maybe I should stop fighting and accept it. Accept that mom made me feel I wasn’t good enough to be her child. Accept that I was emotionally neglected during childhood. Accept that in any situation I want to be seen as the good girl, the one who deserves praise and recognition because I feel like I never – NEVER – got it from my mom.

When I first started this blog, I felt that I SHOULD be mad at my mom but I couldn’t muster it. I remembered too often the exceptions to her behavior; the times she went overboard to try and make up for all the time she wasn’t there. The early years when she’d make a gingerbread house so I could take it to class and everyone would share it and think I was cool. The middle years, when she’d keep me out of school to take me out for the day to see a film or go shopping. These kept coming up in my head. I kept making excuses for her, giving her reasons to behave the way she did. I tried so HARD to see it from her point of view that I negated mine.

These days, if somehow my mother would come back from the dead for one day, I might just start that day by slapping her hard across the face before I blasted her for the next 7 hours with my anger. Fucking bitch! I don’t give a fuck that she was tired, that maybe she didn’t even WANT kids in the first place (and then why did you, bitch?!?). I want to know why she gave up on me. Because she did; she gave up on me before I can even remember WHY she gave up on me. And yes, all sorts of explanations spring to mind: postpartum depression, menopause. Her excuses are her EXCUSES. They are NOT valid reasons.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my sister in this as well. I’m pretty sure she’s got narcissistic personality disorder. And guess where her behavior pattern was learned? Yep. The same bitch who ignored me.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll one day get angry at dad for letting all this happen. I can’t see that happening right now. I got to know dad AFTER mom died. I got to see a different person emerge. And these days, I suspect mom’s dominance over dad was so complete that she squashed a whole lot of his personality out of the picture just like she did for everyone else in the family.

So yes, I blame mom even for dad’s quiet acquiescence. I blame mom for all my problems, and all the problems I see in my siblings. I blame my mom for her sibling’s shortcomings as well: she was the eldest child and I know her dominating personality would have ruled over all her brothers and sisters. Cause mom controlled EVERYTHING. Her word was law, and if you didn’t like it you’d get hit (didn’t happen often: mom instilled guilt so deeply in her family she used that to manipulate us the majority of the time). But that was the fact of it: there was no arguing with her. Her lips would close down into that unattractive thin line and you’d know there would be no more discussion.

She wanted me to excel, but she wanted me to excel HER way. The things I wanted weren’t good enough, and I wasn’t good enough to pursue my dreams. Nothing I did could please her. Nothing. If I excelled where I wanted to – on stage, performing – I’d get a tight lipped ‘very good’. Nothing else (and that happened no matter HOW I performed, so I knew it was never genuine). If I got a B on a paper at school I was berated for not getting an A. I was told I had too many brains to just be an actress or singer. I was told I didn’t have enough talent to make it as a performer. I was told I was too fat to make it as a performer.

Fucking controlling mother fucking BITCH!

HOW do you do that to you kid? How do you leave them sitting in a chair day after day when they tell you their feet hurt too much to walk and do NOTHING? How do you leave them half conscious on the bathroom floor as the dry heave their way through an entire night and do NOTHING?

WHAT KIND OF MONSTER WAS MY MOTHER?!?

The more that question sinks in, the more I think about it and all the implications of what happened to me, the angrier I get. I see more and more the effect was larger than just me: the entire family carries the scars of what mom did. I can only handle my side of it, and the larger thought that mom was simply ABUSIVE scares me so much…..

Part of me feels like this is another nightmare and I should just wake up. Another part of me feels like I just HAVE woken up and seen what’s really been going on.