The other night I sat and began to write more of The Little Series. I’ve been writing it offline, some on paper, some in drafts here. I don’t know anymore what I can manage to share – some of it is so painful that I almost don’t want anyone to know. Some of it is very graphic too, and I almost want to protect the people I love in this world from it. As the words flowed and I put my heart and head into pulling myself back in time, I kept bobbing to the surface and wondering if I will always be broken.
Last night, alone in the basement, quietly assembling a Christmas present until 3 a.m., I wondered about where my mother and father where in their lives, if they are happy, and worried to the future and what kind of people my boys will be. Will they eventually grow up and decide I wasn’t good enough? That they never want to speak to me again? Will my own self-preserving karma bite me in the ass later with my own kids, as my mother wished upon me years ago?
Did I really do everything I could to maintain relationships with the people that brought me into this world?
If you asked Daren, he would say I did everything and more. If you asked anyone in my family, they would agree that I couldn’t possibly survive any more abuse, rejection and manipulation at the hands of my mother and father. If you asked me on a day where I’m feeling stronger, I would agree that I did everything I could. That it’s my parents who are truly broken.
Parents aren’t supposed to be the way mine were. They are supposed to love you no matter what, right?
Then why couldn’t mine?
Why couldn’t they love me through the growing-uppedness of being? Why couldn’t they pick me up from my mistakes instead of rejecting me over and over?
Deep down, I know it’s more about them, then me. I know that. I repeat it in my head, like a mantra, but I’m not always convinced. I have love around me everywhere I turn and I know that love is true and never, ever wavers, but I long for the why of my past.
Every once in a great while, a get that feeling in my throat that I’m going to vomit. Thoughts of my mother can be a sucker punch. Memories of my father twist my soul into a tight ball. There are memories that can throw me into a panic attack and I can’t breathe. My heart is racing and I can’t do anything but sit still and wait for it to pass.
I’m the girl with parents who chose not to love her.
What kind of people don’t love their child? What kind of child was I that made me so unlovable? I try so hard to justify their actions in my head, to make sense of it, but it only hurts the little girl who once was.
These times take a hold of my voice, and all the reassurance and self-confidence in the world won’t stop it from rising in my gut.
It hurts. It hurts so bad I can’t even tell you how bad it gets because I keep pushing it down as I have done forever. I feel so unbelievably alone in this sometimes and all the people that love me can’t fix it. They can’t fix it because nobody, including my amazing husband, can explain why two parents threw away the daughter they made together.
This is the part where I’m supposed to turn this around and tell you I’m breaking the cycle, right? And I am, I am breaking the cycle with my boys. They will never know this pain. This I know. And once I purge this from my system, I will walk away, take a deep breath and smile until the bile settles. Until next time.
The cracks in this broken heart are forever, I’m afraid. Forever. My blood runs deep into those cracks and pools in thick, suffocating clots.
I’m the girl with parents who do not love her. You can’t un-break this.
You can’t un-break this.