The Paranoid Scapegoat

UnknownI feel like I’ve been up all night toking a bong. Twas fast asleep in my bed, I swear…just swimming backlash.

I’m thankful for it this morning. I was so wound up yesterday it really was difficult to just settle. Tomorrow I might bitch about being tired if it continues, but for today I say ‘thank the goddess! I should be able to turn OFF today’. Doing my best to NOT use it as yet another excuse to beat myself up. I decided yesterday that mornings were a better time for me to get exercise in, and wanted to start getting up and walking in the early morning on days I wasn’t swimming. Instead, my ass is right back in my chair as I type away today but that’s OK – do I hear me? It’s OKAY – because swimming is like the ultimate kick your ass exercise and if I’m really putting 100% in at the pool I expect to be dragging afterwards. I am no longer a ‘spring chicken’ and that kind of exertion just takes longer to recoup from. Deal.

Thought long and hard about my body image shit. Thought all day about it, really, which did my antsy feelings no good. I’ve come across an idea, but I don’t know how well it fits. The idea is this: contrary to what my dear old dad told me (still love him, and yes, I can muster some anger over this issue) I WAS the slim, fast race horse in my immediate family. I was the tiny one. The slender one. And I was fucking terrified of BECOMING as fat as I saw everyone around me. I THINK two things coincided in my life around the age of 14 or 15. One, I took up my love/hate battle with exercise and two, I really began to berate myself for being fat in order to stop myself from becoming fatter.

Like I want to come out of this saying 99% of my self berating began out of HABIT. Fuck no! I’m at that stage where I KNOW ultimately I’m responsible for how I feel and interpret the world but my guts still roll with anger and I want to point fingers, blame, get sympathy for what I’ve put up with, etc. I don’t want full understanding and acceptance yet. Fuck that shit. I’ve still got huge boils of puss filled SHIT to syphon out of me. I may need the rest of my lifetime hearing that no, I’m not bat shit crazy and yes, my sister is a cunt. I may need to hear over and over again from other people that my mom was wrong to ignore me, wrong to treat me like she did. I may need to affirm EVERY DAY that I’m not fat. I’ve got to learn how to feel normal…if that’s even possible.

My brain keeps bringing up this, so I will too. I’m fucking gobsmacked AMAZED at how pervasively my family sees my as a scapegoat. My nephew is 18 years my junior. By the time HE was 18, he had learned very well how to berate and blame me. I was blamed “abandoning” my nephew and his father. Oh, the email I got from that little shit of a nephew spoke volumes on how low I am viewed in the family. I was the worst fucking thing that ever walked the earth because how DARE I leave everyone who depended on me and go and seek my own fucking life. Depended on me? Well, yes. The family DID depend very much on me. They depended on me being there to catch their shit every goddamn fucking time, to be blamed for whatever they didn’t want to take responsibility for. If I left, I could no longer be the reason that people were lonely or angry or whatever the fuck they can’t fucking deal with when I’m not there.

I have the feeling I’m narrowing down on this….Getting VERY angry. Hearing old memories…”That’s just (insert my name),” “(Insert my name) is too little; we can’t”, “(insert my name) can’t do this, so we can’t”. No specific pictures attached to any of it, just floating phrases that make my blood boil. There’s also this sensation of being STARED at after such a phrase was uttered; being looked at by my siblings with accusations all across their faces….I ruined it AGAIN. My fault AGAIN. I’m to blame AGAIN. This is old, old shit. Shit from when I’m almost too young to remember it. I can tell you of other instances later in my life when this was repeated, but it’s the early stuff, the stuff that BROKE me that I’m interested in. The rest is just repeating the message.

No fucking big surprise I just left and kept going. Kept getting further and further away from all of them. I still have fantasies of going back and making them all eat crow. Regretting all the terrible things they let themselves believe of me. And telling them all to fuck off, I don’t need them or their pitiful fucking approval that’s dependent on how much they perceive me to be under their control.

Yeah. Seriously fucked up. Even my body image problems were echoed in the family: while I was the thinnest and most fit of us most of the time, there were 2 occasions when my sister embarked on those drastic liquid only diets for 4 months. She lost a lot of weight both times (and gained it back both times). However, for the brief 2-4 months BEFORE she gained the weight back I heard a lot about how skinny she was and how fat I was. “Oh, you can have my old clothes. They’re too BIG for me now.” My nephew: “Geez, your legs are fat!” My dad, praising my sister’s new weight and, I felt, implying my weight was now too much. Never heard any of that for all the fucking years I killed myself working out day in and day out. Never heard any of that all the years I was easily the smallest family member. No one ever told my sister she was fat or too heavy. You didn’t fucking dare! But me? CHRIST! I remember meeting with an uncle I hadn’t seen in 10 years and the first fucking thing out of his mouth was that I’d put on weight and was getting fat. FUUUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOOOOOOU!

Bleh. I am NOT to blame for everyone’s problems. I am NOT responsible for everyone. I never was. How fucking ridiculous to make a BABY responsible. Yet, that’s what happened. I was the youngest, the least likely to be able to actually effect a change, yet I was to blame. Always. That, then, merited all the times I was forgotten and left behind. I guess it also merited allowing my illnesses to become very serious and never take me to a doctor or hospital. ‘Cause dat’s what happened.

Ok, that’s fucked up. Seriously. I can step outside and imagine seeing this in a film or reading it in a book and I think ‘that’s fucked up’.

I’m more than a little afraid I’m indulging myself in this. That I keep bringing it up as an excuse rather than just pushing ahead. I don’t know HOW to push ahead, tho. I don’t know HOW to change the way I see myself or think about myself. I keep trying. I keep doing new things, working to think outside the box I’ve put my own head in. I keep asking for feedback from my bro, who’s the only person on this planet I trust right now.

Which brings up another paranoia that’s been flaring in me. I’m getting freaked out that the stalker from my past will take on some anonymous persona online and somehow – SOMEHOW – find me. This is completely irrational. IF he’s alive, he’s probably in jail. IF he’s not in jail, he can’t afford a computer. IF he could actually afford a computer or goes on line with a public computer, he’s still got to sift through billions of online sites and avatars before he’d actually be able to find me (I’m not so worried about a public spot like Facebook as I am here, where I’m allowing myself to be honest and vulnerable). And then he’d only be able to recognize me through either (a) some hacking that could allow him to figure out exactly who I am, which he’s just not smart enough to do, or (b) some bit of information I write about. I guess it’s the second thing I’m worried about, because he does figure into what I write about out here. I might have been paranoid before him – hell, I WAS paranoid before him, but he made it far, far worse. He brought a very personal feeling of insecurity into the equation. Whereas before I’d have vague nightmares of being searched for or chased by unknown assailants, now I’m chased by him. It doesn’t happen often anymore, but it does happen and sometimes, i fear, it happens in my sleep and I don’t even remember it the next morning. I think that’s what fuels the paranoia that he’ll find me. I think I’ve been seeing him in my sleep lately and I’m not remembering it.

I’ve got to turn this on it’s head. I’ve got to find a way to laugh about it. My brother made me laugh yesterday when I shared with him my body issues. He just kept cracking jokes until I laughed, and everything broke around me like a glass house with no foundation.

Let’s see….

Well, if he’s always chasing me, I guess I can say I never knew he was such an ass man. Or, how’s this: he had weight issues himself, so maybe chasing me is his form of exercise like a dog chasing a car. He wouldn’t know what to do with it if he caught it. OH! That’s a good image. A dog chasing a car. I’m the car, he’s the dog. Excellent (said with Monty Burns inflection and hand gesture). Heh, heh. I can turn that into the road runner and coyote real quick, too. I can even hear him “Wile E Coyote super genius”. HA!

Better. Stronger thoughts, less vulnerable. He is a gnat I swatted long ago. He will never catch me.

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2 thoughts on “The Paranoid Scapegoat

    1. Yeah, my family DOES feel like it’s far more work than anything positive I ever got out of it. As for the stalker, he remains Wile E Coyote in my head; he sprouts long ears and a tail every time he shows up now. It’s helping. 🙂

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