Over the three and a half years I’ve had this blog I’ve realized big things. I’ve learned a lot about myself, about others, about the way we see each other. Many times I’ve though of giving up on this blog, scrapping it, and starting anew. I guess I’m tired of not being authentic, of censoring myself, of all the doctoring I do constantly. A few of the blogs I follow have touched on this themselves and I guess it’s their way of saying that they’re passing the torch and so it’s my turn.
I have these words inside me screaming to come out. I want to be an open book. I’m tired of censoring myself. I may lose followers (I hope not) but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
I won’t bore you with the way most stories start “Once upon a time” and ending with a hearty “And they lived happily ever after”. No that’s not how this is going to go. Sit down, grab some coffee because this is going to be quite a ride!
Stories start with “once upon a time” and end with “And they lived happily ever after” or something similar but this isn’t a story. I can’t just snap my fingers and make everything OK.
I had a relatively happy childhood (as told to me by my mother). That’s how you know this post is going to get deep. Like 7 ways to Sunday, 6 feet under deep. Let this sink in… I don’t remember much of my childhood. I remember weird things like the color of my baby blanket, what laying in the cold tube of a CT scan machine felt like, the colors in the rooms of the house my grandparents owned in upstate New York. Stuff like that. Weird considering I was only three at the time.
The first concrete thing I remember after that?…
My mom owned a little gift shop in the center of town. (I think of it as the center of town anyway) She sold candles, jewellery, glass pieces, candles, toys for kids, etc. Sometimes I’d go in after school and help out. Understand, I couldn’t do much but I’d organize candles on shelves and put price tags on things. It was awesome, tons of fun.
After that? Nothing vivid or in color until I was thirteen. My parents were fighting and eventually got divorced (though I don’t remember much of the fighting). I had two hutches and I remember seeing them both as I got ready for bed one night and the next morning one was gone. I kid you not. For some reason that’s the memory I have but that isn’t how it happened, at least to my knowledge.
Then the eight years of emotional, narcissistic, physical, and at times bordering on sexual (incredibly inappropriate) abuse began. Why would someone who is supposed to care about me do such a thing? When people ask if I have a dad, I say no but I do have a biological father. He and my abuser are one in the same.
When I turned 21, I left his house. Best decision I ever made. Unfortunately, I still worked for him. I should’ve quit my job then too.I wish now that I could block him out. I haven’t spoken to him in over two years.
Now I’m a quarter of a century old. I live with my mom. I’m trying to put my past behind me. Each day I feel like I get further away but sometimes I feel ashamed. This whole thing could have gone differently. I wish I had known then what I know now.
Now you know my story. I didn’t post this looking for sympathy. I posted it to show that below the facade of my posts, is the deeper part of me that I need to bring to the surface.