Ed. Note: I started this last night and couldn’t finish it. I realize that the more I unravel my past, the more uncomfortable I feel about discussing the ramifications. The legacy of my childhood: toxic secrecy. What happens in the house, stays in the house.
I haven’t been to Taiwan in sixteen years. My brother, my niece, and I are scheduled to go two days after Christmas. We booked our tickets while my mom was here in early September. I was looking forward to seeing the motherland again because it’s changed drastically since I last went. My brother has not been in about thirty years. This is the first time for my niece. She is eleven.
Now, I don’t want to go. With the flashbacks coming at me, I don’t want to go face my father. Years ago, I made my peace with not knowing what really happened. In the last few years, I made my peace with my father because he is an old, frail man (physically) who can no longer hurt me. We were cordial to each other, and I was satisfied with that.
Now, I want to punch him. I want to protect my niece from him. I want to ask what the fuck he was thinking?
Many many years ago, before the lost years, at the urging of an incompetent therapist, I confronted my father with my mother and my brother present. I clearly remember my father’s response. He said, “I don’t remember that happening. I would remember that if it happened, right?”
My mother: “It couldn’t have happened. I would have to leave him if it did.”
My brother: “I don’t know what happened, but I support you no matter what.”
Immediately after that, I tucked the vague memories I had back into that little corner of my mind and froze my soul. I felt as if I would tear my family apart if I continued to explore my memories, and I couldn’t do that to us.
I want to punch my father. I don’t know how I can look him in the face and not just puke all over him.
I am furious with my mother. I don’t know what she did and didn’t know at the time, but she was his fucking doormat. She still is. She lost herself in serving him, and she taught me that a woman should do anything to hold on to her man.
Even worse, she started confiding in me when I was a teenager. I was already fat, sullen, suicidal, and severely depressed. The last thing I needed was my depressed mother telling me shit about my father that I didn’t need to know. She would complain about the way he treated her, and I would support her. I have urged her to divorce him since I was twelve or so, but she never did. More infuriating, she would turn around and defend him not ten minutes after complaining about how mean he was.
I don’t want to talk to her. Last time she called, she was telling me where my father was (in China), and it was all I could do to not tell her that I didn’t give a rat’s ass where he was as long as it was nowhere near me. Then she pressed me on my personal issues (I had told her that much). She asked if it was a man, which is always her first question. I said no and that I didn’t want to talk about it. She pushed a bit and then finally said, “Well, I’ll pray for you.” Normally, I would just shrug that off, but this time, it bugged the shit out of me.
Motherfucking pray for me? That’s your idea of helping me? My mother prays for the Twins to win. She prays for my nephew not to have a tantrum today. She prays for my brother to sell a house. I suspect she prays for me to get married and have babies.
She can shove her prayers up her ass, that’s what the fuck she can do with her prayers. Where the fuck was her God when her husband was beating her son and molesting her daughter? Fuck her fucking God with a rusty pitchfork.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this pissed off about religion. I realize that I’m not mad at God, per se, mostly because I don’t believe in the Christian God. I’m pissed off at how the mantle of Christianity is used to cover a plethora of sins.
Maybe God can forgive my mother for her sins of omission (and of commission), but I sure as hell can’t right now. Regardless of what actually happened in my childhood, she taught me that my self does not matter. I should either be pleasing a fictitious man or I should be pleasing her. To this day, she confides in me things she can’t/won’t tell anyone else. She is the therapist to all her friends, the wise one, the one who dispenses advice. She can’t be seen to actually have problems, oh no.
I am incredibly sad tonight, but I am also filled with rage.
Ed Note: This is the start of today’s writing.
My whole body is leaden, as is my soul. I had the worst night of sleep I’ve had in a very long time. I broke down after writing the first part of this entry. The pain simply overwhelmed me. I was literally hugging my body, trying desperately to keep myself together.
I am sorrow. It fills my every pore, and I can taste the bitterness on my tongue. My heart is breaking in a million pieces, and then those pieces are each breaking into a million little shards. I am surprised I have any heart left considering how it’s shattering.
All the lies of my past. All the isolation, despair, loneliness, anguish, hurt. All the hopelessness and flatness and unending misery.
Everyone tells me I can get through this. Everyone believes I will get through this. I can hear what they are telling me, but it seems so foreign to me. How can anyone be sure that I will emerge on the other side? No matter how many times everyone reassures me that I am stronger than I feel, that I will endure, all I can think in my head is, “Fail fail fail fail fail.”
My head is as thick as molasses right now. My brain is not firing on all cylinders. I awoke from a nap in which I dreamed that there were people trying to kill other people through means of a poisoned virus. I was one of the people being targeted, and I had to try to escape from the poisoners. The problem was that it was impossible to tell the good guys from the bad guys, so I had to be hypervigilant in order not to be killed.
I feel sedated, and not in a good way. The voices in my head are telling me that it’s too hard. Life is too hard. I am not worthwhile. I am failing. I will never be the woman I am meant to be. While I know intellectually that I should not listen to the voices, I am too beaten down at the moment to be able to effectively resist. It seems pointless to continue trying. I want to crawl back into the cocoon of frozen tears and just shut my eyes. I don’t think I am going to turn into a butterfly any time soon.
I am realizing that it’s harder for me to confront my negative feelings about my mother than it is for me to deal with my father because the former feels more like a betrayal. How can I think bad thoughts of the woman who bore me and nurtured me and loved me and took care of me? Being a mother was the best thing that ever happened to her (so she continually tells me in an attempt to get me to breed), and she sacrificed so much for my brother and me. What an ungrateful brat I am for questioning the decisions she made in the past. She made them all for me and my brother!
It feels sacrilegious to be pissed off at her, but, god help me, I am.
It’s all crumbling. The facade of the happy family. It’s dust at my feet, and it’s dragging me back into the abyss. Even now, there is the voice in my head saying, “Don’t you dare publish this post. How can you even think of saying such horrible things about your family, especially your mother? You’re going to tear the family apart!”
And the sad thing is, I just might. I might be the reason it all falls apart. I sit here with tears staining my cheeks, mourning a past I never had and a future that might not happen. Your video for tonight is one I used two entries ago. It’s Johnny Cash covering NIN’s Hurt. Since I am a tad CDO (Compulsive Disorder Obsessive, in alphabetical order as it should be), I have listened to it about ten times in a row, and I am still listening to it. It perfectly epitomizes the turmoil I am experiencing right now. And, it’s the man in black. Nothing more needs to be said.