First, I want to start with an applogy.
The purpose of this blog was to talk about to talk the three things people don’t talk about in polite company(sex, religion, and politics).
But the more and more I write, I start to notice something:
How my family life prepared me, or in a way left me open to things that wouldn’t work on a more balanced person.
So here I go.
I was born to a woman out of wedlock, who upon my birth, was told by the church to repent for having me out of wedlock.
My father? He denied being my father upon my birth and still does. Tells others that my mother slept with some other guy and says it was him because she is crazy.
His mother called me “the bastard” and refused to believe that I was her son’s child. As I grew up, Her and her intermediate family treated me like I was the scum under their shoe.
Heck, I honestly believed I was the scum under everyone’s shoe. I was the bother, the annoyance. The person who was thrust upon others when no one was “ready”.
In my life, I felt as if every time I caught my family unawares constantly.
My father’s(read my mother’s sperm donor) children soon after, felt like a constant reminder that they were wanted and loved. It was almost as if they were there to remind me that they were the accepted avenue. The chosen ones. And I would be the one, although first…
cast out among the wolves.
No covering, no validation, no birthright.
Mom didn’t want me when I was first born(yup, she told me that).
Heck, she didn’t want me for a while (inference).
When I was a teen, she laughed at me when I cried and tried her hardest to make me feel like shit.
I honestly thought she hated me(seriously thought that until recently)
I was kept only because my grandmother and great aunts told her that if she kept me that they would help to raise me.
Sometimes I really wish that she would have gave me away.
Maybe, just maybe if I would have been put with a family that wanted me and didn’t see me as a responsibility I’d see myself more differently.
But that’s getting ahead of myself.
My great aunts, who upon taking care of me, would verbally abuse me and hit me for the smallest infraction. My aunt Rosanna, she hit me with a high heeled shoe that broke the skin so deeply that it left a large mark that folks see when I take off my shirt.
My aunt Corrine, she had a lover that molested me when I was a child. Instead of believing me, she touched me inappropriately(thus making fun of what I said) and hit me. Yes, I was accused of lying.
I never told my caregiver at the time(grandmother) because I honestly thought it would be talked about among the adults.
My grandparents(caregivers) fought constantly. Often coming to blows. Grandmother would often try to leave, only to come back. Step Grandfather would drink himself into stupors, come home from the bars at three am, waking me up and just yelling and breaking things for no reason. He put out a cigerette on me once. And another time through me on the ground, trying to step on me.
It took my step-grandfather’s drunken naked napping in the bed that I just happened to be in to make her divorce him.
And despite this, I was so damn hungry for their love, I would split. I didn’t know that is what it was called(until I went to a Psychatrist and a therapist). When they were nice, I could say “this person loves me” and give them all my attention and so on. But when they were cruel or mean I could say “I hate THIS person”. I often switched between the two.
But apparently if you do it long enough, it’s real hard to see the shades of grey. You only see the black and white. The all or nothing. The innocent/the damned.
Sadly enough, you put any kid through the crap I went through(or even more..because there are kids who have experienced more than what I have gone through) you’re going to get splitting.
Which is perfect for Fundamentalists, because there is an element of that in the teaching. We’re all bad. God is all Good(even the stuff in the old testament was GOOD). There were no shades of grey.
Perfect for me.
I knew(read: thought) that I was piece of crap who needed to be cleaned. And I wouldn’t mind going through whatever hoops I needed to go through in order to recieve that love from God.
Well, his children too. Heck, his children mostly.
The idea that a loving and good God would accept me and yet allow what happened to me…blew my mind.
But I tried my hand at believing it.
I really wanted to believe. I wanted to accept the fact that all Christians were brothers and sisters and they would love me because they had the love of Christ in them. And Christ was head of us all.
I went to so many altar calls, asking God to heal me, to forgive me for being a fuck up. For just being me.
I altered myself more and more for this cause, only to feel more and more ashamed. Only to feel more and more like there was something wrong with me. That there was this kernel of darkness and evil in me that couldn’t be dislodged.
And yet I prayed, because God/Jesus were the closest thing I could have to a friend. Because of the fairweather actions of cousins and aunts and such, any person who came to be with the hand outstretched in friendship..
I accepted all judgements aside. I really thought folks would be different if I weren’t related to them. I thought they’d be even better if they were in the church.
I felt failed when they didn’t prove that to me. I felt rejected when the teens my age would make plans and I’d always be left on the outside.
I wasn’t perfect, mind you, but I did try to be a good person(despite my desire to control certain guys to love me..or make them love me or that bs).
I believed that every person was completely bad who needed Jesus to make them completely good.
And yet, I still thought I was completely bad. So I did all what Jesus required of me to be completely good. But yet the suicidal thoughs, the desire to self harm, and the need to pull away would scream at me in my flesh, my heart and mind.
So I fought them, because mom would say it was either 1) me feeling sorry for myself and being addicted to that or 2) it was something demonic.
So I would hate myself even more for even feeling sorry for myself. Because I had so much. I had a roof over my head, I had food, heck I had nice clothing. Yet I wanted to die. I wanted to make life easier on mom, grandfather, grandmother, my church family and friends.
I was so sick. Infected with this disease of self-loathing and want that I feared infecting others. I honestly thought the only way to fix it all was to push the power button on my life and end it.
The older I became, and the more I felt like a failure at life coupled with the internal pain i felt inside, would cause this desire to rupture to the surface.
And even though emotionally I felt the church, the first infection still rages from time to time. Because when it comes to bruises and marks, no one does it like family.