It took me a long time to decide where to start with this next post. Should I hop around topics that mean a lot to me? Should I ramble and let my thoughts flow as they may? Or, should I tell my story in order as it happened? However I tell my story, I want it to be as honest and real as possible. So.
Lets get down to the nitty gritty. Lets start from the very beginning.
The very first negative thing that I remember in my life, is the day that my dad left. Yes, my parents are together, today. Very happily, I might add. But it wasn't always that way. When I was younger, much younger, my parents didn't get a long at all, it seemed. They used to stay awake at night and scream at each other when they thought my siblings and I were asleep. I never thought anything of it. It all seemed normal to me. Until the day the screaming stopped.
I fell asleep to parents yelling, as always. And woke up to the face of a family friend, with bad news on her breath.
My sister and I, rather confused and tired, trudged through the house full of concerned faces until we reached our destination. My Mother was sitting in a chair. Red faced. Crying. Broken.
And my dad was gone.
I know, now, that his leaving was caused by a long collection of things, on both sides. No one person was at fault. However, at the time, all I could see was how hurt my mother was. And that my daddy wasn't with us. It didn't just feel like he had left my mom. The quiet, nagging voices in the back of my mind said that he left ME. They said that I wasn't enough to make him stay. I wasn't important enough. He didn't love ME enough. And, the pain that I felt that night caused a huge rift in my relationship with my dad. A rift that didn't fix itself until I was almost graduated from high school.
Even more importantly, I feel comfortable blaming this day for the start of my debilitating anxiety, fear of being alone, and my depression.
I should probably point out that my dad didn't disappear. He didn't leave me. We saw him all the time while he and my mom were separated. He still loved us and took care of us as much as he possibly could. But I was young. And I didn't care. The quiet voices didn't care.
My life changed an insane amount in an insanely short amount of time.
I did NOT handle It well.
My dad was living with another woman. A woman whom I really didn't like. A woman whom my siblings didn't like. A woman who, clearly, didn't like us. A woman that I will refer to as "Bitchefer."
Bitchefer once slapped my hand away from a bag of chips and told me that she didn't want any fat children.
I think it's rather understandable to believe that Bitchefer made my insecurities and anxiety worse.
I digress.
This post isn't about her. Let's move on.
My parents reconciled and got back together. I was over the moon to have my family back together. Who wouldn't be?
But, underneath it all, I couldn't shake the fear. The fear that my parents didn't love me enough to stick around. The fear that if I messed up, they would stop loving me altogether. I had no doubt in my mind that my parents love for me was NOT unconditional. It was NOT all encompassing. It was fickle. And it could break over the simplest things.
Not cleaning my room well enough. Not getting good grades. Not being athletic like my sister, or smart like my brother. Like being thin enough or popular enough.
I was a little girl. And I was living in constant fear. My anxiety caused me to cry at the drop of a hat or the crook of an eyebrow. One offhanded look was all it took to send my thoughts into a frenzy. The voices in my mind had full reign and I was too young to understand that it wasn't normal. Or that I needed to ask for help.
I avoided sleepovers. Read books, alone, in my room, all day. I ate alone on the bleachers instead of eating lunch. I never volunteered to answer questions in class. All of these things, these little things, were huge tasks for me to overcome. I still can't make phone calls without days of preparations and hours of staring at the phone number in fear. Anxiety is no joke.
I was a little girl. And I was utterly terrified all the time.
That is the very beginning.
Lets get down to the nitty gritty. Lets start from the very beginning.
The very first negative thing that I remember in my life, is the day that my dad left. Yes, my parents are together, today. Very happily, I might add. But it wasn't always that way. When I was younger, much younger, my parents didn't get a long at all, it seemed. They used to stay awake at night and scream at each other when they thought my siblings and I were asleep. I never thought anything of it. It all seemed normal to me. Until the day the screaming stopped.
I fell asleep to parents yelling, as always. And woke up to the face of a family friend, with bad news on her breath.
My sister and I, rather confused and tired, trudged through the house full of concerned faces until we reached our destination. My Mother was sitting in a chair. Red faced. Crying. Broken.
And my dad was gone.
I know, now, that his leaving was caused by a long collection of things, on both sides. No one person was at fault. However, at the time, all I could see was how hurt my mother was. And that my daddy wasn't with us. It didn't just feel like he had left my mom. The quiet, nagging voices in the back of my mind said that he left ME. They said that I wasn't enough to make him stay. I wasn't important enough. He didn't love ME enough. And, the pain that I felt that night caused a huge rift in my relationship with my dad. A rift that didn't fix itself until I was almost graduated from high school.
Even more importantly, I feel comfortable blaming this day for the start of my debilitating anxiety, fear of being alone, and my depression.
I should probably point out that my dad didn't disappear. He didn't leave me. We saw him all the time while he and my mom were separated. He still loved us and took care of us as much as he possibly could. But I was young. And I didn't care. The quiet voices didn't care.
My life changed an insane amount in an insanely short amount of time.
I did NOT handle It well.
My dad was living with another woman. A woman whom I really didn't like. A woman whom my siblings didn't like. A woman who, clearly, didn't like us. A woman that I will refer to as "Bitchefer."
Bitchefer once slapped my hand away from a bag of chips and told me that she didn't want any fat children.
I think it's rather understandable to believe that Bitchefer made my insecurities and anxiety worse.
I digress.
This post isn't about her. Let's move on.
My parents reconciled and got back together. I was over the moon to have my family back together. Who wouldn't be?
But, underneath it all, I couldn't shake the fear. The fear that my parents didn't love me enough to stick around. The fear that if I messed up, they would stop loving me altogether. I had no doubt in my mind that my parents love for me was NOT unconditional. It was NOT all encompassing. It was fickle. And it could break over the simplest things.
Not cleaning my room well enough. Not getting good grades. Not being athletic like my sister, or smart like my brother. Like being thin enough or popular enough.
I was a little girl. And I was living in constant fear. My anxiety caused me to cry at the drop of a hat or the crook of an eyebrow. One offhanded look was all it took to send my thoughts into a frenzy. The voices in my mind had full reign and I was too young to understand that it wasn't normal. Or that I needed to ask for help.
I avoided sleepovers. Read books, alone, in my room, all day. I ate alone on the bleachers instead of eating lunch. I never volunteered to answer questions in class. All of these things, these little things, were huge tasks for me to overcome. I still can't make phone calls without days of preparations and hours of staring at the phone number in fear. Anxiety is no joke.
I was a little girl. And I was utterly terrified all the time.
That is the very beginning.
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